


make this feel like home

by soldouthaz



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Louis, Domesticity, Dual POV, Enemies to Lovers, Famous Harry, Grieving, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Non-Famous Louis Tomlinson, Past Drug Use, Past minor character death, Pet Names, Roommates, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Tension, Time Skips, Top Harry, highly inaccurate legal terminology, louis has a bad past but they don't really talk about it, mentions of - Freeform, not between Harry and Louis, not their real families, past alcoholism, past emotional abuse, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 10:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldouthaz/pseuds/soldouthaz
Summary: The house on West 28th Street in London is twice the size of Louis', more expensive than the price of all of his house and car payments combined, and is falling apart at the seams.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 176
Kudos: 905





	1. 1.0

**Author's Note:**

> i’ve had this idea for a few years now and i’m so glad it’s finally going to be out in the world!! it didn’t come out exactly as i was hoping but it’s been quite the writer’s block filled journey and i’m so happy i actually managed complete it. this one’s more plot-heavy than the others. :) enjoy! 
> 
> p.s. the mentions of alcoholism/drugs/past abuse are very vague and are only touched on a few times without too much detail. also, the minor character death is fairly non-specific as well and does not involve any descriptions since the story takes place after it happens, but please be aware they’re there if any mentions of death/dying/a family member not being around anymore is a sensitive topic for you! 
> 
> polish translation on wattpad by EndlessNight28 :) 
> 
> you can reblog this fic [here](https://soldouthaz.tumblr.com/post/611365688876105728/make-this-feel-like-home-43k-the-house-on-west) :)

_ Louis _

The house on West 28th Street in London is twice the size of Louis’, more expensive than the price of all of his car and house payments combined, and is falling apart at the seams. 

Grass overgrown and windows boarded up, the water from the autonomous sprinkler system falls on vacant space. Newly abandoned, it sits in all its intimidating glory across the street from Louis with its chipping paint taunting him. Just last week he’d been stood in the living room, discussing the book he was currently reading over a nice, warm cup of tea. 

Genevieve Styles passed away peacefully last Tuesday night of old age. Louis’d known she would go at some point but he hadn’t expected it to happen so  _ soon _ . Nearly twenty seven now, he should probably be alright on his own. He doesn’t much feel like he is yet. 

When he’d moved here eight years ago he hadn’t anticipated befriending the older woman. She’d met him at the lowest point in his life, when he’d been trying to get away from everyone and everything he’d ever known. 

Flash forward a year or two and he was eating dinner in her home at least five nights of the week. A few more years and he had his own bedroom there. These last twenty-four months he’d spent more time at her house than his own. 

Now that he can see the quick decline of its walls, he appreciates even more how much effort she put into keeping it clean and homey. The older she’d gotten, the more the task had fallen to him. A task he, admittedly, was not the best at. 

He’s staring out the window for the sixth day in a row, too anxious to go back in. He’s got a key that’d been made specifically for him in the tray by the front door but he can't bring himself to use it yet. Going in there alone, without warm hugs and tea boiling and soothing small talk, seems  _ wrong _ . 

At the same time, Louis knows he can’t just let it wither away - he  _ won’t _ . Genevieve had worked much too hard on it to simply watch while it faded to dust. Besides, it’s not like any of her family will come to claim it. 

Even if they did, she’d promised it to Louis before she passed. That and a hefty amount of money that hadn’t gone to her family. The house is his responsibility, whether he wants it or not. 

Setting his cup aside and pulling out a pen and paper, Louis makes a list. 

He’ll need new paint, for one. The floors need to be redone in the entryway from years of sitting with the door open and the front steps are splintering in the middle where they used to walk up them. Even the chain on the porch swing is breaking, and Louis knows he’ll find a million more improvements to make if he ever gets the courage to go over there again. 

Genevieve’s cat, Bea, purrs as she rubs against his calf underneath the table. A heavy brown and white ragdoll, she demands attention at all times. 

“Good morning, Bea,” Louis coos, reaching down to stroke her head. 

She’s been clingy since the move to Louis’ house, always wanting attention and curling up in his lap when he’s busy. He doesn’t blame her. The small company is more than welcome after the shockwave of loneliness that ensued. 

He pushes the list away and stands to get her some more catnip. Obediently, she trots after Louis into the small kitchen and hops up onto the counter while he pours it into her pink bowl. 

“Here you go,” he says. 

Louis smiles as she begins to eat. Bea has been around since the beginning as well, and he’s glad to have a reminder in the house. She used to hiss at Louis if he went near her but now she refuses to be away from him even for a few minutes. Years of careful persistence had paid off somewhere along the way. 

Leaving the front door cracked, he lets Bea eat while he goes to sit on his own front steps. 

The street is vacant the majority of the time, save for a few cars that pass on their way to and from work in the city. It used to be peaceful, like Louis had found a spot in the world that only he and a few others knew about. Now it just feels lonely. 

He shivers despite the perfect weather outside. It hardly ever rains here and the clouds always look picturesque, settled over the pale blue of the sky. For once, everything feels  _ too _ calm. 

It hadn’t taken him long at all to grieve the loss of his parents but he figures that was a different circumstance. Back then he’d been numb to practically anything. He knows it isn’t his fault Genevieve is gone. It just feels -  _ heavy _ right now. 

Louis thinks he should be throwing a fit, crying or yelling at the sky or something dramatic like that, but he’s already done all of those things. With a determined exhale, he glances up at the house across the street. 

It still stares back at him, unmoving, daring him to go inside again. 

Jumping when Bea settles herself in his lap, Louis puts a hand in her soft fur and smooths it over her back. He’ll start tomorrow, he thinks. 

One last day to just appreciate, just reminisce on the good things before he’s faced with all of the changes he’s going to have to make. He’s been trusted with taking care of it, and he will, but not right now. Not yet. 

Tomorrow, he decides. Louis tucks Bea up into his sweater and sighs. 

He’s been telling himself  _ tomorrow _ for a week now. 

+

Surprisingly, Louis is up when the sun rises the next morning. Stumbling through the too-long corridor to the kitchen, Louis dodges his own moving boxes still littered about from years of laziness and disregard. Despite living here his entire adult life, he’s got no clue what’s in them. As of right now, he doesn’t have plans to find out. 

His house is minimal, he likes to think, with only a few pieces of furniture and some minor decor adorning the empty corners. He’d made plans to hang up a wall of pictures when he’d moved in but he’d never gotten around to it. 

Louis hisses when his bare feet meet the cool tile. He presses up onto his tip-toes to reach for a mug, setting it neatly underneath the nozzle on the coffee maker. While it brews, he hops up onto the counter and swings his crossed ankles back and forth until he zones out. 

Coffee has never been his favorite drink. Still, Louis sips on a cup of the beverage every morning in an effort to wake himself up, though it rarely does much but make him more anxious. Stuck in the routine, he supposes. 

His shoes sit next to the front door and he slips them on silently when the machine is done sputtering, tugging a jacket over his shoulders. While it’s still dark outside he heads out to the car, coffee in hand. If he’s going to get working on Genevieve’s house, he can’t let himself slack off. 

The drive to the convenience store is short like it always has been. Louis knows the roads like the back of his hand, could probably drive them with his eyes closed. He doesn’t, to be safe. 

Instead he pulls into the parking lot and parks in his usual vacant spot, taking the key out and heading inside, his cheeks rosy from the chill when he’d stepped out into the early morning chill. 

“Morning, Louis,” the cashier smiles brightly at him. 

“Morning, Brenda,” he waves. 

He’s been coming here for years now, anytime he or Genevieve needed anything. Quite literally anything, since the store carries a variety of every type of food or hardware or means of survival he can think of. There isn’t much out here on the backroads, so he’s always been grateful for the easy access. 

Louis heads straight for the back aisle where he knows the paint is. He’d used some of the same kind to paint over some cracks in his own walls when he’d first moved in. Or, he bought it for that purpose - he’d never actually opened the can. 

Genevieve had always loved light blue. The house was painted that color originally but had begun to fade over the years with the weather damage and aging materials. 

His eyes are drawn immediately to a can on the outer edge, the last few on the shelf. It’s baby blue, labeled  _ Powder _ , and it looks exactly what Louis imagines the initial coat did when it was fresh. 

Smiling to himself at the tiny victory, he grabs all of the cans they’ve got of the color and heads up to the checkout. 

He makes it about five steps before he realizes there’s something wrong, frenzied screams coming from the front of the store. Louis freezes for a second, but then moves forward to get a closer look through his wide eyes. 

Near the front door, an entire group of women is gathered in a circle, surrounding someone in the middle. Whoever it is is tall, Louis can tell, but he can’t see much else without his contacts in. 

Relieved that there doesn’t seem to be a threat, Louis navigates through the throng of people to the vacant checkout line, dodging a few who jog past him in a rush. 

The group is steadily moving toward the back of the store where Louis’d just been, men in all black guiding the person through. Admittedly, his interest is peaked. Nothing exciting ever happens here anymore. 

He really needs the paint, though, so he steps up to the counter, finding that empty as well. He turns just in time to see Brenda pushing at the very back of the crowd towards the back room. 

Louis sighs loudly even though there’s no one around to hear. Grabbing a pen off the counter, he reaches around behind it to grab a piece of paper. He scrawls a messy note about what he’d gotten and leaves all of the cash he’s got and the paper next to the till so Brenda will see it when she gets back. 

It’s a bit difficult to carry all of the cans out to his car and unlock it but it’s doable. Everyone that could’ve helped him is inside in the commotion anyway, he figures. Swinging the last one into the back seat, Louis slams the door shut and buckles back in just as the sun is beginning to peak over the treeline. 

There are radio vans and black SUVs parked up and down the street when he turns out of the parking lot and he squints at them as he drives by. He wonders absently if someone is hurt, but then thinks it seems more like a celebrity spotting. 

Louis scoffs at himself.  _ As if a celebrity would visit here _ , he thinks. He’s still chuckling lightly as he pulls back into his driveway. 

Unloading the paint is just as ungraceful as carrying them out had been, and it takes him several trips because his arms have gotten tired from all of the lifting. He trips twice on the way up the steps, nearly hitting Bea with one as she jumps quickly out of the way. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters. 

An empty living room stares back at him when he walks in. He could set down the cans anywhere, he knows, but he situates all of them in a nice stack in the corner anyway. Running back out to grab his cold coffee, Louis takes a sip and grimaces before tossing it in the sink when he gets inside. 

He’s got paint brushes stored somewhere from when he’d been determined to paint his own house, so he sets about finding those while Bea eats her lunch loudly in the kitchen. 

Rubbing at a sore spot on his back, he tenses when it flares up as he steps on a chair to get a better view of one of his top shelves. He should probably work out more. With all of the physical labor sure to come while fixing up Genevieve’s house, he thinks it’ll be more than enough of a workout. 

“Ah,” he whispers triumphantly to himself, grabbing for the brushes at the back of the cabinet. 

Louis climbs down carefully and puts the chair back from where he’d gotten it, walking lightly across the floor to go put them with the paint. His footsteps echo in every room, hollow and harsh against the silent and still backdrop. Even when he tip-toes the boards underneath his feet groan in protest. 

A flash of movement catches his eye when he gets back to the corner, glinting light from the window. Louis peels back the sheer curtain to get a better look. 

In the street between his and Genevieve’s houses, the same black SUV he’d seen earlier at the convenience store pulls slowly past. The driver, anonymous due to the blacked out windows, speeds up to get to the end of the street before making a u-turn and coming back around. Again, they slow down in front of the house. 

Brows furrowed, Louis crosses his arms. Sliding the curtain shut, he walks a few steps to the side and opens the front door, prepared to ask if he can help them with anything. 

Just as he’s gotten to the top step of his own porch, the SUV speeds off down the road again. Louis watches them until they’re gone, and then stares at the spot where they were before to make sure they don’t come back. After a few minutes he shrugs and heads back inside, locking the door shut behind him. 

It should’ve been his first red flag. 

+

The first thing he does is mow the grass in the yard. It’s grown so tall over the past few weeks that he can’t see any of the nice flowers anymore, and it makes him sad to think of them hidden back there by themselves. 

Painting the entirety of the outside seems like it’s going to be a long job, so Louis’ trying to get some of the smaller things done first. Also, he’s still kind of procrastinating going back inside. 

Minor distractions are okay, he figures, as long as he doesn’t get too off track. Louis knows he tends to get overwhelmed when he doesn’t take proper breaks and this is a project he’s not willing to risk messing up. 

He’s also aware that he could just hire someone to do all of these things, but that feels impersonal. The house was left to  _ him _ , not to whoever they send to fix it on his behalf with money that isn’t his in the first place. He’s determined, now. 

It’s a small lawn mower for how much power it gives off, practically running itself out of Louis’ hands as he tries to make even stripes across the substantial yard. 

Sprawling out over 1.5 acres, the property is a lot to manage, especially when Genevieve used to hire someone for the exterior jobs. Louis ignores the ache in his lower back and pushes on. 

The front doesn’t take too long, and he takes a break halfway through to eat his lunch with Bea before heading to do the back. Bit by bit, he figures if he breaks it up into smaller pieces it won’t feel like so much work. 

Genevieve’s backyard is something out of a travel catalog. It’s a bit out of sorts currently, but Louis knows how good it looks when it’s manicured the right way. With a giant pool in the middle and an organized garden behind it, it used to look picturesque when he would tan on the back porch or swim laps in the summers. The fences are high on either side for privacy even though there aren’t any neighbors for another mile or so down the road. 

Louis swings the mower inside the gate with a huff before latching it closed behind him. He doesn’t think this portion should be too much harder since it’s more pool and plants and less open landscaping. He situates the front of it straight ahead and starts making the same even strips. 

Pausing in front of the tall windows that overlook the backyard, Louis glances inside the house. All of her furniture is exactly how she’d left it. There’s a newspaper on the table still, cups next to the sink waiting to be washed. 

He can see behind that a bit, into the living room. The blanket laying across the back of the couch was wrapped tightly around his shoulders last month when he came over to watch a game on the television. Genevieve’s glasses are probably resting on the table where she left them afterward. 

Guilt consumes him for a moment. He should be in there taking care of those things. He should have taken care of them weeks ago already. He used to do those sorts of things when she was alive, so why can’t he do them now? 

When he looks down again, he’s nearly scalped the patch of grass he paused over. Cursing, he hurries to keep moving so it doesn’t happen again. He’ll have to buy some fertilizer to hide his patchy job. 

People are allowed time to grieve, Louis knows. But he doesn’t feel like he’s mourning yet. Something in the back of his mind tells him that in order to do that, he’s going to have to actually go back inside. 

It’s the only logical way he’s going to get closure. Even if he goes slowly, he’ll have to rip the bandaid off at some point. This house had practically been his home - he can’t sit back and become a stranger to the same walls that he felt so safe inside of before. 

His mind lingers on that as he finishes up the rest of the yard on autopilot, zig-zagging straightly back and forth. He steps back to look at all of it when he’s done, his hands on his hips and sweat dripping from his hairline. 

It doesn’t look professional, but it looks like  _ effort _ . Now, each time he sees it for the next few weeks until it grows back, he’ll want to do some more. It’s already looking much better. Louis feels a little less like it’s an empty skeleton and more like it’s breathing again. 

He lays down on the freshly mowed lawn, smiling at his accomplishment. It’s only the beginning for now, but this is already one thing down on the list. It’s enough to inspire him to go home, shower, and set his alarm for the next morning, too. 

Grinning wider, Louis closes his eyes as the sun beats down on him and soaks in the feeling of being outdoors for once while he’s in the mood for it. 

And then the sprinklers come on. 

+

“Louis Tomlinson?” A man’s voice asks sternly. 

It’s early again.  _ Too _ early. Louis is infinitely more tired than he’d been yesterday, rubbing sleep from his eyes crankily, devoid of the same motivation. No one ever calls him, so the harsh sound of his ringtone had startled both him and Bea when it’d buzzed obnoxiously at full volume on the side table. 

She’d thrown up in the bed several times during the night and Louis’d stayed up with her to calm her down after he’d thrown the sheets in the wash. Unfortunately, he’d never gotten back to sleep. 

He throws a quick glare at the cat curled up in a blanket on the far end of his couch, snoring contentedly into her paws. 

“Speaking,” he says deeply, leaning forward to set his mug down on the coffee table. 

“Good morning, Mr. Tomlinson. This is Milbank Law Firm, in London. We’re calling about a mention of your name in the will of Ms. Genevieve Styles?” 

Louis scrambles off the sofa and over to the dining table, grabbing a pen and pad of paper in case he needs it. 

“Alright,” he says, pulling out the chair to sit down, “is there an issue?” 

The man avoids his question, “We’d like to make an appointment to go over some of the details listed here. Are you available any time over the next few days?” 

Racking his brain, Louis tries to think if he’s got anything coming up. He glances over at the unopened cans of paint stacked up high in the corner and shakes his head. Another time. 

“I’m available Monday,” he tells him, “I can do any time.” 

There’s a pause on the line while the man presumably makes his appointment, and then he clears his throat. 

“Thank you, Mr. Tomlinson. We’ll see you at noon on Monday. Have a great rest of your day.” 

Louis hangs up and sets the phone down on the table slowly next to the blank notepad. He doesn’t want to worry unnecessarily, but that hadn’t sounded like a happy tone. Between having a key for years and Genevieve telling him that the house would go to him explicitly, he hadn’t even considered that he might have to check in with someone before claiming it. 

These are the types of things he used to ask her about. All of his stupid questions he’d be too embarrassed to come to anyone else for. Now, he unlocks the phone again and taps the search bar. 

But that’s - that’s the thing. He doesn’t know  _ what _ to search. Louis huffs and locks it back again. Worrying won’t do him any good. 

Monday will be here in forty-eight hours and he’ll have a definite answer. It could be as simple as signing his name, for all he knows. There’s no reason to get ahead of himself. His head hangs low, tired when he glances back over at the cans of paint against the far wall. He should really get started on that soon. 

Inhaling calmly, Louis approaches them with his arms crossed. He grabs the thick paint brush beside it and one of the handles of the cans and heads across the street before he can convince himself not to, Bea trailing close behind. 

With the grass mowed down it's much easier to reach the siding of the house where it peels back from the wood. Louis uncaps the paint, dips the large brush into the color, and lets his mind wander with possibilities while he covers the old with the new. 

+

Dressed in one of the only unpacked suits in his closet, Louis feels entirely too formal. It’s navy blue and one or two sizes too big for him but he’s hoping it will at least look like he’s made some sort of an effort. 

He doesn’t travel much outside of his neighborhood - he’s sure that much will be obvious. He’s only five minutes down the road and his palms are sweating where his white knuckles clutch the wheel too firmly. 

Louis does know that there’s more to his nervousness than the drive. He’s got no idea what he’s walking into, if there really is an issue and he won’t be able to claim the house in the end. 

The car behind him honks when he misses the light change, zoned out staring at the skyline out the side window. Waving politely through the rearview, Louis presses on the gas so quickly that the tires skid on the pavement below. 

He steps into the office building twenty-five minutes later, almost an hour early for his appointment and just as anxious as he’d been the day before. The receptionist, a young woman that smirks when he stumbles walking in, asks if he’d like a drink when he sits down. 

“Coffee would be great, thanks,” he tells her. 

Again - habit. 

She nods politely, disappearing around the corner, and Louis is left alone. He’s always prided himself on being independent, but it’s becoming clearer to him now that it may have all been a lie. 

Even if he was alone somewhere he never truly felt it. He would call Genevieve to let her know he got there safely, and he’d ask if he should pick up anything from town on his way back. Then, when he arrived there, she’d welcome him in and they’d talk about wherever he’d gone and what he did there. 

The difference is striking. It takes infinitely more effort to do normal tasks when they’re for him alone. At least when he had someone back at home he felt like there was a  _ purpose _ , something to return to. 

Genevieve’s home, the big house on West 28th, is all he’s got left. If he loses that Louis fears he may also lose the fragile self confidence he’s been working so diligently on building up over the last ten years. He’d be left with essentially nothing for the second time in his life. 

He sips his black coffee for another twenty minutes while he tries to block out his own thoughts before another woman is opening up the door to the side to look out at the lobby. 

“Louis Tomlinson?” 

He stands hesitantly to his feet, then rushes to extend his hand with a tense smile. 

“Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Tomlinson,” she shakes his hand, “please follow me.” 

She leads him down a narrow hallway with quick, clicking steps and stops in front of a glass door at the very end. Pulling it open, she gestures him inside first. 

“Mr. Tomlinson,” the man already seated at the table stands abruptly to welcome him. 

Eyes narrowing the slightest bit, Louis lets himself be urged toward the single chair on the opposite side of the conference table and tries to mentally count how many times they’re going to call him by his last name. 

Sitting back down in her own chair, the woman attorney addresses him without much pretense. Her loud voice, although he’d known it was coming, makes him jump slightly, wiping his hands on his trousers under the desk. 

“Ms. Genevieve was never married and was not close with her family,” she says formally, “we’re very grateful that you’re here on their behalf to discuss these stipulations with us.” 

Both of them look guilty, but Louis entertains them for the time being. 

“I’m grateful to have known her,” he agrees. 

Silence falls over the small office as the attorney’s prolong the inevitable, the man staring down at his hands while the woman clears her throat. She seems to have lost her initial confidence, her eyes darting off to the side of the room. 

Inside, Louis has to resist the urge to scream at them to spit it out already. He’s only been seated for two minutes. 

“She insisted on doing things her own way, as you may know,” she continues. 

Louis nods unsurely, “Yeah, she was, uh, very hard-headed.” 

Glancing between each other, the female attorney smiles tightly at him as she folds her hands on top of the table. 

“Well, while we admire that, it isn’t always the greatest trait to have when we’re talking about legal measures.” 

“I’m sorry,” Louis blinks twice, “what exactly are you saying.” 

She sighs, deflating, “Genevieve edited her will herself, which she was strongly advised against. Doing so leaves a lot of room for  _ mistakes _ that could potentially affect everyone listed on the document.” 

Gulping, Louis waits for the punchline. 

“It is true that she listed your name with intentions to inherit the estate,” the man takes over, “but Genevieve didn’t fill out the form properly.” 

“So, what does it mean?” Louis asks, shaky voice exposing his nerves. 

The woman struggles to answer him again as she opens and closes her mouth, trying to find the right words, he assumes. 

“It means that, while you  _ are _ entitled to the money she left you and the majority of her belongings, the house itself falls to someone else.” 

It takes him a minute to process the information. His heart feels heavier in his chest, accompanying the dryness at the back of his tongue when he tries to swallow around it. Nausea builds in his stomach. 

“May I ask who?” He rasps. 

They share another look, this time with a slight smirk, and Louis feels even sicker while he waits. Meeting his eye again, the woman smiles bashfully at him, a pink blush on her cheeks. 

“Harry Styles.” 

+

They send Louis home with a letter from Genevieve. Apparently, they have no use for it because the will is still filled out incorrectly regardless of the wishes she expressed in the paper he’s holding now. 

He skims through the first part where she copied down the obligatory legal terminology and begins reading when he sees his name. 

_The house_ _and everything inside of it is to go to Louis Tomlinson,_ the line reads. The letter mentions how to get in touch with him which must be how they got his phone number, and she describes in great detail why she’s leaving it to him. 

Her words make him smile as he traces a finger lightly over them, but they don’t change anything. No matter how great she thought Louis was, she hadn’t submitted it correctly and Louis won’t be getting the house no matter what his character value apparently is. 

There isn’t anyone to vouch for him, anyway, besides a few cenile old ladies from the church down the street. Louis doesn’t think the attorneys would accept their testimonies too easily. 

Despite all of this, he takes his time reading it over and pictures her saying the words out loud to him in her sweet, small voice the way she used to. 

He doesn’t cry like he thought he might after reading it. He’s numb, instead. 

This hadn’t been just one hit to his pride. One hit would’ve been that he didn’t get the house. Fine - he can befriend the new owners or work out a plan to buy it back from them with the money Genevieve left him. It still wouldn’t be ideal, but it would’ve been okay. Louis’ dealt with his fair share of hard times before. 

The second hit had been Harry Styles. 

Genevieve’s son, Harry’s father, was an awful man. He resented Genevieve for most of his life for raising him without a father, always bullying her in his teenage years and ruining any of her prospective jobs or suitors. Despite Genevieve’s kind outlook, her son had managed to stray very far from the tree. 

In an ironic twist of events, Harry’s father had done the exact same thing. After getting his girlfriend at the time pregnant and falling down a hole of drugs and alcoholism, the hatred inside of him increased tenfold and he took it out on anyone willing to get close enough. 

At first Louis felt bad hearing stories about Harry’s childhood. He’d been a victim of his father as much as Genevieve had for nearly eighteen years until he moved out to London. 

For a few months Harry and Genevieve were extremely close. He spent nights at her house while he tried to get through uni. Louis remembers hearing about his late nights studying and his bright, all-consuming passion for music and poetry, lyrics. 

In the end, the same thing that he loved turned him exactly into his father. It hits close to home for Louis because he’s felt that fear many times before in his life, trying his hardest to become anyone but his dad. 

The difference here is that Louis succeeded. He’s managed to settle down somewhere and be somewhat happy. And, most of the time, he hopefully exudes the same kindness Genevieve taught him. 

Harry has been the subject of every gossip magazine over the last few years. Scattered profiles about his various binges, endless parties, pictures of him leaving women and men’s houses early in the morning with big black sunglasses over his eyes to hide the hangover. 

He turned on Genevieve as soon as he made it big. Louis has no doubt he would do that sort of thing again. 

That’s what makes everything come full circle, here - Louis has been there for her when he wasn’t. While Harry was off traveling the world on a whim, Louis was working late nights to pay his mortgage and spending his days with Genevieve. 

He’d been there when she hurt her knee, when he had to drive her to and from doctor’s appointments at the clinic for rehabilitation. She’d comforted him on his lonely nights and he’d done the same for her, the times when he’d realized it was really just them against the world. Louis was there for every important life event because he wanted to be, but also because Harry and the rest of her unfortunate family was too busy to care to check in. 

It’s unfair. Logically he knows that he can’t throw a fit and it won’t do him any good to complain. But he really,  _ really _ wants to. Wants to bang his fists on the hardwood and yell at the ceiling. Scream and cry about how life has never been on his side. 

He can’t, though, because it isn’t true. Louis wouldn’t trade anything for the years he spent around Genevieve. They’re invaluable in each of the life lessons he learned, every time he could feel himself maturing because of her advice. Even in the small moments when just needed someone to talk to or a good laugh, she’d provided it without complaint. 

So he’s back at square one, then. Numb. Angry and appreciative all at once and completely unsure of how to handle it. The paper crinkles loudly in his fist. 

Louis chuckles halfheartedly. He keeps having these moments where he almost reaches for the phone to call her before he remembers he can’t. The thought stings but he doesn’t think he could cry right now if he tried. 

The heaviness reminds him of how he felt before he first moved to West 28th street. This time, he really hopes things turn out equally as good as they did when he met Genevieve. He isn’t sure he could live through it again if they don’t. 

+

He ignores it at first. Louis pretends that nothing has changed because, really, it hasn’t yet. Harry -  _ Mr. Styles,  _ as the attorneys keep referring to him obnoxiously - has yet to show his face and Louis highly doubts he ever will. He’s too accustomed to his life of fame to step down at this point, surely. No one in their right mind would give up their mansions and money to come back to a decaying house on one of the backstreets in London. 

And, if Louis’ calculations are correct, that means it’s still his for the time being. Just like when Genevieve was alive, he is  _ here _ and Harry is  _ not _ . The equation isn’t difficult to balance out. 

Louis keeps the key in his back pocket each day when he goes over to water the plants and paint some more of the outside wall, still too scared to go in but not much worried about anything else. 

It gives him enough time to get some other things off the list done, quick trips to the shop down the road for things he forgot. The spot he’d scalped in the backyard has grown back now, and he can see the flowers without them hidden behind the tall grass out front. He’s even made steady progress with some painting, too. 

By the end of the next week he feels very accomplished. Then they call him back. 

“Mr. Tomlinson,” the same man had droned into the mic, “We’d like to meet with you again. Ms. Genevieve’s grandson is in town for a short time and would like to go over the document with you present.” 

Louis slips back into his suit mechanically. If he lets himself think too hard about it, he probably won’t show up. He makes an effort to make his hair look nice this time. Skips the morning coffee so he can research real estate terminology that will make him seem smart enough,  _ worthy _ enough, to keep the house. He’s already sure of that, for the record, but he’s betting Harry will take more convincing. 

Right now, Louis’ entire plan is resting on the hope that he won’t want it. His blood boils at the thought of having to prove himself to Harry when he thinks it should be the other way around but, for now at least, Louis will give him the benefit of the doubt like Genevieve always generously had. 

Her letter is tucked safely into his front pocket in case he needs to sway Harry emotionally instead of logically, but he doesn’t think he’ll need it. From everything he’s heard before Harry sounds like the type to, if Louis confuses him with enough big words, simply tire of listening to him and agree to his terms without much of a fuss. 

He’d been okay when he left the house. Bea had mewled her goodbye from her perch on the sofa and Louis was doing marginally better on the drive than he had the last time. No shaking hands, no nausea or sweating. 

That had all changed at some point. Somewhere between walking back into the waiting room and seeing the attorney’s stoney faces again, how they fawned over the idea of Harry and paid little attention to him. 

Harry, who is currently thirty minutes late. Louis stares at the spotted carpet as the time keeps ticking by. He’s getting increasingly frustrated while the male attorney adjusts his tie compulsively and the female sneaks glances into her compact mirror, smoothing out the line of her obnoxiously red lipstick. 

Suddenly, Louis feels like the most professional one in the room. He doesn’t get to hold on to the feeling. 

When Harry finally  _ does _ arrive another fifteen minutes later, he saunters in casually. Clad in a patterned button down and black skinny jeans, his expensive boots click to the same vibrato that the woman’s heels had. He doesn’t spare a glance at Louis as he makes himself comfortable in the chair less than a few inches away. 

Both of the workers are in a stunned silence, stuttering over themselves trying to introduce the topic of the meeting. 

Louis doesn’t get it. Maybe he would have under different circumstances, if he’d never met Genevieve and never knew any of the history. He might’ve been just as speechless as the two airheads across the table at the idea of meeting such a well known celebrity. 

But he  _ has _ been here. Instead of pointing that out off the bat, something else makes Louis’ fingers tighten around the edge of the chair, his jaw clenched as his eyes narrow. 

Harry doesn’t look upset. It doesn't appear that he’s been crying or not sleeping, like he’s been mourning. He looks, what Louis would assume it is for him, normal. Detached, almost. It takes everything in him not to scoff. 

“So, we - your grandmother, as you know, well -” the woman stutters, “we’re here to discuss, uhm, her house, as you know.” 

“Yeah,” Harry supplies simply. 

She zones out staring at his face so the man leans forward and continues for her. 

“Mr. Tomlinson, here, was actually promised the house, but there were some issues with the paperwork and it fell back to you, Mr., ah, Styles, sir.” 

This time, Louis does roll his eyes. 

At that moment, Harry glances over like he’d just realized Louis was in the room. He appraises him with a half hearted once-over from his head to his toes and back up again before turning back to the attorneys, silent. 

“And I’d like to try and work something out with you for it,” Louis cuts in when neither of them say anything else, “I have her letter expressing her wishes and I’ve been doing some research on how to take care of -” 

“No.” 

Louis’ eyes snap up to meet Harry’s, still leaned back and lazy against his chair.  _ Had he really just -? _

“I’m - excuse me?” 

“No,” Harry repeats. 

And - okay, Louis can play this game. 

“With all due respect,  _ sir _ , I have lived across from Genevieve for almost ten years now and she clearly expressed that she wished for the house to fall to me. I have her letter, I have my own papers to prove that I live at that address, and I’m willing to work with you on the terms and conditions.” 

Running off of his anger, Louis has forgotten most of the fancy jargon he’d tried to remember earlier. By the appalled faces of the attorneys, he thinks his point came across just as clearly without it. 

A hint of a smirk comes over Harry’s face as he raises a subtle brow, his lips pursed. He sits up straighter and leans in toward Louis, until he can just barely feel the hot breath on his cheek. 

He’s so close to Louis that he can see the pores in his skin, the careful arch of his perfectly manicured eyebrows, the twitch of his nose. Louis can smell his shampoo, even, where his curly hair falls halfway down his small ears. He sees the opening of Harry’s mouth, feels the singular breath before he speaks. 

“No,” Harry whispers again cockily, a coy smile spreading across his lips before he leans back again. 

Louis comes crashing back down to earth, opens his mouth to really lay into him, but the man stands across from them and raises a hand in the air. 

“I think we should take a break, yeah? We’ll get you both some water and then we can come back and discuss.” 

They’ve all been in there together for barely five minutes but Louis couldn’t agree more. Exhaling slowly to keep himself together, he pushes out from behind the desk and heads for the hallway without sparing a glance over his shoulder. 

He pulls out the letter from his pocket, scanning helplessly over her words for something that might manage to convince Harry. Lip trembling, Louis doesn’t know whether he wants to punch him or break down in tears. Both would most likely be equally embarrassing, especially while Harry seems so frustratingly laidback. 

Genevieve’s stories did nothing to prepare him - Louis thinks she’d been awfully generous when describing him. Always the benefit of the doubt. 

Harry has the money to live anywhere in the world and he’s choosing  _ here _ . He’s choosing Louis’  _ home _ . He can’t seem to get the sick feeling out of his stomach, like the air’s been knocked out of him. 

“What’s the matter, Mr. Tomlinson?” Harry drawls sarcastically, stepping out to the other side of the hall to face him. 

Louis doesn’t look up as he settles with a hip propped against the wall. If he squints, he can almost make out his own reflection in the shininess of Harry’s black boots. 

“You aren’t even going to be here. Why are you keeping the house from me?” He mutters, the question falling from Louis’ lips as more of a statement as he glares down at the letter in his hands. 

“For all I know you could be a stalker just trying to get your hands on something of mine,” Harry retorts, “so you can say you have a connection.” 

“Ha,” Louis bristles, unable to help himself, choking out a laugh, “as if I would ever want anything to do with  _ you _ .” 

He hadn’t meant to say it, not really, but he doesn’t regret it when he shuts his mouth again. For a second, Harry’s confident demeanor dampens, shoulder tensing on the wall. He turns to glance at Louis, his eyes narrowed. 

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” 

“You come back here after practically abandoning the only family you’ve got left for years, and yet you get the house that I was here to take care of? That’s not fair, mate, and you know it,” he spits, “I was here. You weren’t. Bottom line.” 

“Do not bring my family into this,” Harry growls. 

Shaking his head, Louis smiles deliriously.  _ That’s the entire point, isn’t it? _ He thinks.  _ Family _ . 

“It’s just a house,” Harry prods, “I don’t understand why you want it so much anyway.” 

Louis sees red. 

“Just a house?” He whispers. “This is  _ not _ just a house. I practically grew up here. I’ve spent more time here than I have in my own house. This is a  _ home _ . I’m sorry you don’t understand what that feels like,  _ Styles _ , but I do. And I’m not giving it up easily.” 

With that, Louis spins on his heel and storms out of the court house, face flushed from anger while he can feel Harry’s silent eyes on his back. The rest of the meeting can go on without him; he’s already said everything he wanted to say. 

Louis doesn’t let himself cry until he’s back in the car, the AC blasting cool air on his face and Genevieve’s letter clutched tightly in his shaking, sweaty hand. 

+

The transition is not smooth, but Louis doesn’t give up. He doesn’t go back over there quite yet (because Harry’s shiny blue car is now parked in the driveway and apparently he doesn’t ever  _ leave _ ) but he makes better plans for what he’s going to do. 

Before he’d had a vague list of improvements to be made but now he’s got every last detail penned out so he won’t make any mistakes. With Harry’s watchful eye on him, he can’t risk looking like a fool. 

He’d said he would honor her wishes to take care of it and he’d meant it. It’s just going to be a bit more complicated now, is all. 

On Saturday he gets over himself and heads across the street with a determined stride, the paint can handle clenched tightly in his fist. He sees Harry in the window once, but he narrows his eyes at Louis and says nothing. A few minutes later, the curtain closes and Louis’ shoulders relax enough to paint without direct intimidation. 

The Tuesday after that, he heads back over with an array of flowers from the shop down the road. There are daisies, sunflowers, and a few other choices so that the bright choices will hopefully bring out the color of the house even more. Bea sits next to him as he digs up the dying, wilting ones and plants the new ones in their place. 

Harry does come outside then, humming to himself as he strolls out to his car. He leaves for nearly an hour before Louis hears him speeding up the road again, swiftly parking sideways in the drive and hopping back up the steps with bags in his hands. The entire time he’s out there he never spares Louis a glance. He can’t decide if that makes him angry or relieved. 

Louis wonders what the inside looks like now. If Harry’s touched anything or rearranged furniture or if he’s left it all as it was before. It makes him angry to picture his things laid carelessly over Genevieve’s, covering up her eye for detail. 

Without thinking he brings a hand up to rub at his eye, then curses when he gets dirt in it. Bea stares at him, unimpressed. 

“What are you looking at?” He mutters, using his elbow to wipe it clean again. 

Then, a few days after that, Harry finally speaks to him. He’s just gotten done replacing one of the front shutters that’d broken from harsh weather a while back and he’s picking up the paint brush again. 

“What’re you doing, Louis?” He sighs. 

Harry’s voice only scares him for a second, his hand freezing on the front panel of the house, dripping light blue paint into the grass. 

“Genevieve told me she wanted me to take care of the house,” he recovers quickly, “I’m taking care of it.” 

In an obnoxious silk robe similar to the color on the brush, Harry raises a brow as he sips on his coffee. He doesn’t even offer Louis one. He leans casually on the large pilar, his face neutral. 

“Suit yourself,” he says airily a few moments later, waving a hand dismissively and heading back inside. 

Louis squeezes his eyes shut and tries to keep his breathing in check so he won’t get too angry. He won’t take that out on the house. 

After he calms down enough he lifts the brush again, trying to make even strokes across the aging wood. He’s still only on the bottom panels for now. He’s dreading the higher ones, knowing he might have to hire someone when he’s already gone and made a big deal of doing it himself. 

Bea mewls below him where she’s woken up from her afternoon nap. She nudges Louis’ calf halfheartedly and yawns. 

“Morning, lovely,” he whispers, patting her small head. 

Things aren’t that bad, he decides. At least he’s got Bea, and he can still technically come over to the house without going inside. Harry hasn’t gotten a restraining order yet, so, there’s that. 

Plus, having Harry here just makes him more determined anyway. He can’t stay here forever, not without giving up his beloved celebrity status he flaunts all the time, so Louis will just wait until he leaves to begin working on the inside properly. He’ll be counting the days. 

Ten years ago, had this happened, he would’ve lost all hope. After being around someone so optimistic for so many years since, he feels slightly more hopeful. That’d been one of the first things he’d learned about himself. Louis tends to think negatively rather than about the good things, and it’d taken Genevieve a long time to help him rewire that train of thought. 

So he picks up his arm again and ignores the dull ache in his shoulder, leaning in to get a better angle. This, the painting, is going to be the most difficult, most time-consuming thing on his list. He’d even decided to paint it a different color too, so he can’t stop halfway either. 

He thinks maybe Genevieve planned it this way. Not Harry coming here, but more for Louis. A test to see if he’d keep going even after she left. 

From the corner of his eye, he can see Harry drag the front curtains shut again. 

Louis shrugs. If this is a test, he’s going to do amazingly, he decides. Harry can get angry and shut him out all he wants - Louis isn’t doing any of this for him. If he thinks of it that way it’s much easier to ignore everything else and focus on making the house look great, on making himself see it through. 

When he steps back only one side of the house is done, only the bottom half of that, even, but it’s still progress. It’s still something. 

Louis packs up his things and heads back across the street to his house as the sun begins to set. Then, when he gets inside, he marches up to his own front window and tugs the curtain tightly shut, crossing his arms triumphantly and heading to get some much-deserved sleep. 

+

It’d been a no-brainer that Louis would plan the funeral. 

He’d been closest to her even though she’d left a positive impact on countless people through the years, and he’s the only one strong enough not to sob openly at the podium if he has to give a speech. Or, he hopes he won’t, anyway. 

The nice old ladies at the local church had asked so politely and Louis hadn’t wanted to disappoint them. They’d all teared up as soon as her name was dropped so they probably wouldn’t be able to handle anything more than their own attendance. 

Over the month, Louis gathers everything he can about her from inside of his head and tries to put it down on paper in a way that communicates just how much she meant to him. How lost he would’ve been without her guidance. 

In the end, it doesn’t happen. Louis writes endless drafts and not one of them feels right when he reads it out loud to Bea, stood up in his living room like it’s a stage. He can’t get the words quite right, can’t express what he wants to say properly. None of it feels like  _ enough _ . 

His trash bins overflow with crumpled up notebook paper around the room in each corner. The floorboards creak from his pacing, his scalp sore when he pulls on his hair for the millionth time frustratedly. 

He doesn’t want to minimize her, is the thing. If he writes a tribute and recites the memorized lines, that’ll be that. There’s just no way he’s going to be able to fit all that she was into thirty-three lines or less. It feels much to  _ final _ for his liking. 

Instead, he decides he’ll just wing it. Everyone who’s RSVP’d so far is over the age of sixty-five anyway with the exception of some of the younger nieces and nephews, so he’s not too nervous if he fumbles in front of them. Even if they are just as much related to Harry as to her. 

With that portion out of the way, he uses some of the money she left behind for the decor and catering. It doesn’t add up to very much, not when he knows everyone involved. 

The fresh food is from a bakery in town that he used to frequent often, where the owners are very familiar with both him and Genevieve. Flower arrangements are coming in from the florist next door to the bakery with much the same backstory. All of the ladies from church are sewing a memorial quilt for her which Louis doesn’t quite understand but fully appreciates. 

He’s thankful for the community even when he’s been a bit of a recluse when he wasn’t around Genevieve. But he can’t take credit for any of it. Louis knows she’s the reason they all want to help out, not him. She left an impact on everyone she met - Louis’ witnessed it more times than he can count. He hopes one day people will feel that way about him, too. 

Between all of his planning and work on the house, he sort of forgets about his own life. He doesn’t have much of one anymore to be fair, but little reminders spark his memory when they come across his path. 

Bea hisses at him each time he misses one of her meals on accident, unused to having a pet around. He stubs his toe on one of the unpacked boxes in the hallway when he’s distracted. A few days ago he’d spilt hot coffee all over the floor when he jumped from hearing a scary noise. The glass had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces. How did Genevieve expect him to undertake all of her belongings when Louis can barely handle his own? 

He’s been so caught up in trying to take care of her home that he’d neglected to maintain much of his own. And, despite his best efforts, he can’t ignore the inevitable any longer. 

Louis sighs and stands to fill Bea’s food bowl again as she mewls, mind lingering on the letter laid out on the kitchen table. In intimidating bold, red letters:  _ FORECLOSURE WARNING _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in the playlist i listened to while writing for inspiration, you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/116fXxzCKtUGmOUEKQYWW8?si=RqQ8J9iVTmm1K-uU_8b6gQ). 
> 
> you can reblog this fic [here](https://soldouthaz.tumblr.com/post/611365688876105728/make-this-feel-like-home-43k-the-house-on-west) :)


	2. 2.0

_ Harry _

Home has always been a foreign concept for Harry. 

He’d grown up with absent parents, the only-child result of an impulsive mistake. They’d made sure he knew that, too. By eighteen he’d moved into his own flat in London, leaving with the promise of making it big and shoving it in their faces. 

They laughed at him at first. Then, when he accidentally crossed paths with a rep from a label in Los Angeles and his career took off, they pleaded him for money. It’d felt all too good to laugh at  _ them _ then. 

That feeling had faded relatively quickly. For the past few years he’s lived in hotel rooms and tour buses. Never spending more than two weeks in a single place, he’s become accustomed to the fast-paced lifestyle. Harry’s found through trial-and-error that he prefers it that way. 

When he has too much time somewhere something inevitably goes wrong. Usually he can get away with a few blissful days before people start to realize how hollow he actually is, if he’s lucky. 

Coming back to London had been a mistake. Instead of having that warm welcome with people fawning all over him, he’d gotten Louis Tomlinson. 

Harry’s decided they’re enemies now. He knows he sounds arrogant but Louis hadn’t even batted an eye when they’d met. It’d been very wrong of Harry to assume that this would be easy, he knows now. 

And he hadn’t been joking when he’d suggested that Louis may just be a stalker - he has a lot of them. They’ve added up over the years and he definitely wouldn’t be surprised if one of them managed to track down his location even though it’s to remain top secret. 

The thing is that Harry doesn’t even really  _ want _ the house. Or he didn’t anyway. But the longer he’d thought about it, the more he realized how good it could be for him. 

Touring last year was amazing, but it’d come with a rock-bottom low after the nights of all-time highs. He never got the chance to get back into the old routine after traveling the world for a year. 

He’d smoked, drank, done various drugs, slept with whoever’s house was closest at the time, male or female. He’d been reckless. For some reason, he couldn’t seem to stop after he started, either. 

After one too many important missed events and hangover-induced shouting matches with his label, they’d suggested a tentative break. Harry fought it until the last minute, until he got the call that Genevieve had passed away. 

They’d pushed him to take the opportunity immediately. It’d taken him a long time to twist the situation to be positive inside of his head. But he had, ultimately, only to have it squashed by  _ Mr. Tomlinson _ upon arrival. 

The entire thing makes him angry because he knows Louis is right, he doesn’t really deserve it, but he’s attached to the idea now. Of having a home base to return to when he feels unsteady. Four walls that he can call his own instead of bouncing around from flat to flat when he’s not touring. 

It’s certainly big enough, larger than any other house on the street for miles and obviously the most well-kept. Or, used-to-be well-kept. Harry has a feeling he’s going to have to dish out quite a bit of money to fix up the place, though Louis seems intent on doing it all himself. 

He’d left LA tasked with finding inspiration for a new album but all he feels now is numb. 

Dressed completely in black, Harry adjusts his tie in the filthy mirror leaning against the wall and slaps his own cheek lightly to make himself perk up. His eyes droop still, unaffected by the dramatic act, and his cheek colors a bright, angry red. 

He hasn’t seen any family in a long time now. There’s a high chance they’ll be very angry with him. But Genevieve meant a lot to him and she’s worth any of the glares he’s prepared to get while he’s there. 

Harry cracks his neck and breathes out through his nose, grabs his phone and wallet, and walks out to his classic Pontiac Catalina that’d been delivered to him last night, sitting idly in the drive. 

+

Despite the dreary circumstance, the sky above them remains a clear baby blue. Harry glares at it as he walks down the cobblestone pathway to the funeral. The universe has never quite been on his side. 

No one glances up when he walks into the garden. It’s set up nicely, with flowers all around and a podium set up toward the front, framed pictures of Genevieve arranged around the lawn. People are looking at them, some crying and others with large frowns on their faces. 

There’s a vase of white lilies to his right on display for people to lay them at her grave, along with other bouquets and candles they’ve brought from home. Harry thinks sparingly about laying one down but decides against it. He can already feel the uncomfortable, too-tight glove of all their accusatory glares. 

And then, past a table full of home-made appetizers and a stack of notecards to write down memories, he spots Louis. He’s walking over there before he can help himself. 

“Louis,” he says abruptly, “What are you doing here?” 

“I planned it, so it would be a bit rude of me to not attend, don’t you think?” He responds, not missing a beat. 

Louis doesn’t look the least bit surprised that he approached him. Harry opens his mouth to retort but a small woman comes up and puts a hand on Louis’ shoulder before he can. 

“Louis, dear,” she dabs at her eyes, “it’s so lovely to see you again. Genevieve was so lucky to have you around.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Lorraine. I feel lucky to have known her.” He grabs her hand and pats it gently, his eyes crinkling with a soft smile as he leans down to talk with her. 

And Harry wants to make fun of him, point out that he seems fake or something to embarrass him, but he doesn’t. Louis looks tired and overworked, but he doesn’t seem insincere in the slightest. 

He never has, Harry realizes. Even when he was superbly angry with him, he was never artificial. 

When she walks away, Louis stays silent for a moment before turning back to him and leaning in to speak quietly with glassy blue eyes, the same shade as the sky overhead. 

“Look, I know we don’t get along but I think the least we can do is be civil and honor her memory for today.” 

He says it simply with his gaze forward as he stands beside Harry, but it’s obvious he’s affected by everything going on. Louis checks his watch with a careful flick of his wrist and sets his drink down on the table, walking away without saying another word. 

Grabbing a drink for himself, Harry makes his way to the back section of the chairs and settles in on the last seat of a completely empty row. 

Sure enough, Louis appears at the podium a few moments later. His arm is looped with another older woman’s, helping her step onto the makeshift stage. 

“Good evening, everyone,” he says, “Thank you all for coming out tonight. All of you are so special to Genevieve.” 

Harry waits for Louis’ eyes to narrow on him as if to say _ not you _ , but they don’t. That’s fine, really. Harry already knows that’s how he means it anyway. 

“Beth here worked with her in the church for a long time, and she’d like to say some words. If anyone else would like to speak, please feel free to line up to the side.” 

Louis backs up to let Beth stand in front of the mic, his hands clasped together in front of him. 

Everyone seems to know who he is. It’s a red flag that has Harry thinking he may have jumped ahead of himself in thinking he was just a stalker. As Beth tries to articulate an old story at the podium, Harry glances around the chairs to see if he knows anyone else and gets lost in his head for a bit. 

There’s a few of his cousins, an aunt and uncle on his mum’s side sitting near the front. It’s possible that a man on the far left could be one of their old neighbors, but there’s no way to be sure. He feels severely out of touch with this group of people now. 

Listening to their stories of memories that he could've -  _ should’ve _ been a part of is more painful than he anticipated. He’s close to crying even though he hasn’t seen Genevieve in years. Sitting alone, Harry knows he looks like a sore thumb compared to the rest of them. 

He’s hit with a sudden need to get out. He could go back to LA, give Louis the house to take care of and he’d never have to face this kind of discomfort again. Everyone would probably be happier if he left again, anyway. 

But that would be immature. That would be the exact kind of behaviour his label sent him here to fix. He’s got to grow up at some point, even if it’s uncomfortable. 

Plus, before he can get up the courage to move his legs, the small line has run out and Louis takes the mic again. He squeezes his eyes shut determinedly while he bites the inside of his cheek. Harry thinks he can see a tear roll down his cheek when he squints. 

“Genevieve was the kindest woman I’ve ever known,” he begins softly. “She was strong, and loving, and she was there for me when no one else was. I have no idea where I would be if I’d never met her.” 

People earlier had talked amongst themselves while someone spoke. Now, everyone seems to be holding their breath, silent enough for Harry’s quiet exhales to seem like screams. 

“I grew up with her. She taught me endless life lessons that I wish I would’ve taken the time to write down,” he chuckles lightly, continuing, “small things like how to clean out stains from the carpet fastest, what the ideal time is to cook a chicken for a roast, how to properly fill out the forms at the clinic.” 

The small crowd smiles blearily up at him. Harry feels entranced and also like he very much shouldn’t be here right now, but finds the corners of his own mouth raising slightly, unbidden. Some sort of nostalgia for something he wasn’t even around to be a part of. 

“Things that a mother shows you when you’re young. Things that most of us miss out on because we’re in such a hurry to get out, be independent. I was just lucky enough to get a second chance at learning them.” 

Harry jerks in his chair. Louis hasn’t looked at him once the entire time he’s been speaking, but it feels like he’s seeing right through him. 

“Genevieve never married, but she always told me how important it is to be kind and accepting of others, even when they don’t return that to you. She said you never know what may be going on in someone else’s life,” Louis exhales. “So, I think if there’s one thing she would want us to take away from being here today, it’s that. To be kind to everyone, as often and as much as possible.” 

A silence falls over the garden as Louis breathes shakily, looking down.

“I could talk for hours about just how much she changed our lives, but I think it’s better to leave it at that for now. If any of you have memories you want to share but don’t want to come up here, there’s a table to your right where you can leave those. Thank you all for coming, again.” 

His exit is hasty as he rushes around the corner, past reaching hands to the privacy of the restrooms. Harry’s initial reaction is to go after him, but the logical side of his brain forces him back down. He’s probably the last person Louis wants to see right now. 

So he stands instead to go to the small chapel on the other side of the chairs, hoping for vacancy so he can hear himself think for a few moments without feeling stifled by the shell of his old life. 

One of his cousins, Maura, he thinks, stops him with a hand on his arm. 

“Hey, Harry,” she says enthusiastically, smiling brightly with no evidence of tears or upset. 

With furrowed brows, Harry clears his throat. 

“Hey, Maura. How’ve you been?” 

“I’ve been great. Hey, do you think I could get a quick picture with you? My friends don’t believe that we’re actually related.” 

_ Ah _ , he thinks. There it is. 

He’s more familiar with this reaction than anything else he’s come across being back in London, but now, after Louis’ speech, he’s not much in the mood. 

He smiles tightly as she pulls out her phone and stands next to him, posing with her lips pursed like he’s sure she’s done a thousand times before. 

“There you go,” he says after she’s snapped a burst of them. 

He steps away gingerly but Maura doesn’t even notice. Her fingers fly across the keyboard on her phone while he stumbles toward the chapel, trying to get away,  _ out _ . 

Since he’d landed here, he’d been waiting for a moment like that one. Something to reaffirm that he’s still Harry Styles. Something he  _ knows _ . Instead, it's made him feel even more trapped in his own skin. Does he even know who  _ Harry Styles _ is?

His breathing picks up as he pushes through the doors, dragging his feet over to the closest pew and falling down onto it. After so long keeping his emotions inside, after not crying for years now, it should be harder to get around the mental block there. 

It isn’t. 

It takes all of ten seconds for him to really start sobbing, head buried in his hands. The noise rips through the calmness of the chapel violently and Harry winces but he can’t stop. 

If he was back in LA, he’d have a drink in his hand. He’d call up his fake friends and smoke with them, or he’d go home with someone as a distraction. Being here, knowing he can’t do any of those things, makes everything simultaneously both easier and more difficult for him. 

He’s not welcome here, he knows. That’s what’s got him so upset. He doesn’t fit in and he  _ knows _ . What he hadn’t been expecting was  _ wanting _ to belong here. 

The wooden doors open up behind his back but Harry doesn’t turn around to see who it is. Keeping his head in his hands, he bites back his sobs until they’re just whimpers, the light from outside shining brightly in the room before it dims again. 

In the gap between his pinky and ring finger, he can make out Louis’ shoes in the dark light. He sits facing forward on the pew across the aisle and crosses his ankles. 

Harry braces himself. The funeral is over now, surely Louis will have something to say to him about how weak he is, or how undeserving he is, or how much he wishes he weren't here. He tries to even his breathing as he waits. 

“She would have been glad you came, Harry,” he says, voice still thick with his own tears. 

Too surprised to say anything, Harry lifts his head to glance at him unsurely, mouth falling open. 

It wasn’t as if he was saying  _ he _ was glad that Harry was there, not in the slightest. But it means infinitely more that he sounds like he means it when he says Genevieve would have. It’s enough to dull the ache in his chest just so he can breathe properly again. 

Just like that, Louis leaves him alone for a second time. Harry stays until the light from the window turns dark, until he’s sure everyone else is gone, until he can see through the haze on his eyes enough to walk through the gravestones and get home. 

+

Over the next few days, Harry tries to fall into some semblance of a routine. He sleeps in in the mornings as long as he wants, then takes a long, hot shower, and waits for Louis to begin working outside as his hair begins to dry. 

He’s become a part of Harry’s routine, too, by default. Louis has been over every day since Harry’s moved in regardless of the weather. He thought at first it was to prove a point, but as the days went on and Louis never spared him a second glance he was convinced he’d been wrong about him completely. 

Today is no different. Harry’s got his tea in one hand and a newspaper in the other, lounging around on one of the spacious chairs in the living room. Through the window directly in front of him he has a perfect view of where Louis is trying unsuccessfully to open another can of paint. 

After watching him struggle for a good half an hour, Harry decides he should probably try to help. 

“Tomlinson,” he greets formally, leaning against one of the large pillars on the front porch casually. 

After the funeral he’d thought maybe he and Louis could be acquaintances if nothing else. He’d shown a side of himself Harry hadn’t thought possible when he found him in the chapel. 

Jerking his head up quickly, Louis’ surprise morphs into a sharp glare within seconds. He turns back to his task without acknowledging him standing there. 

_ So much for acquaintances _ , he thinks. 

Harry sighs and hangs his head, then takes the steps down two at a time until he’s a few steps away from where Louis is crouched in the grass. 

For a minute he just cocks his hip with his arms crossed and raises a brow, tilts his head a few different ways and clears his throat. Louis carries on. Still nothing. 

“I can open that, if you need me to,” Harry tries for subtle. 

He isn’t sure it comes across that way. 

“I don’t need your help, thanks,” he hisses. 

“Louis, c’mon,” Harry reaches for the can, “it’s not a big deal.” 

Somehow, between Louis’ grip and Harry trying to nab it from him, their arms get tangled up so much that Harry lurches forward to keep hold of it. They get locked in a game of tug-of-war and he sees flashbacks of when he was young on the playground. He feels like a child. 

“Stop it,” Louis whines, hand held firmly on the thin carrier at the top. 

Both on their knees now, Harry thinks they probably look ridiculous. It’s a good thing this is a deserted street. Still, he doesn’t think these would make for good pap photos if someone did manage to find them. 

“Louis-” he grits, pulling extra hard back towards himself, but then - 

Then both of them are covered in thick, heavy globs of light blue paint. Mouth falling open, Harry catches sight of Louis’ eyelashes weighed down with it, all in his hair and dripping down the side of his neck. Some of it is even in the corners of his lips. 

Everything feels frozen as they keep their hands on the can between them. Harry’s so close to him that he can feel Louis’ frustrated huffs on his own cheeks, less than a breath away. 

For a fleeting moment, he’s so entranced by the way the baby blue looks next to Louis’ eyes that Harry  _ doesn’t _ breathe. 

And then Louis is clenching his jaw and moving backward on his knees. All at once, Harry realizes just how much he’s covered in it as well. It slithers down from the top of his forehead to his shirt and onto his thighs, but it’s clear that Louis got it the worst. 

“Sorry,” he says a bit helplessly, pushing onto his feet. “You can shower, if -”

“Forget it, Harry. I’ll come clean it up after I’ve gotten it offa’ me.” 

Shoulders low, Louis drags his feet back to his own house before slamming the door shut. Harry’s still stunned as the paint begins to dry on his skin, flakes chipping off of him as he moves to head inside for a shower himself. 

He knows Louis hates him. He would too, in his shoes. And he should be used to it by now. Most people hate him in the long run anyway, once they’ve gotten what they wanted from him. 

It’s just - he hadn’t been expecting it to hurt so much. Louis is loud and rude at times, but he was Genevieve’s closest companion. That counts for something, he figures. Something he won’t get to experience. 

His grandmother used to be very picky about who she spent her time with. Harry remembers once when she’d simply told a woman from work to fuck off. Somehow, she still managed to exude bright kindness everywhere she went. She was an enigma Harry often said he wanted to grow up to be like. 

If Louis has spent the last ten years of his life around her, he must have some redeeming qualities, must be somewhat similar to how Genevieve was when she was still here. Harry aches to have been able to talk with her one last time the longer he’s around this place. 

So, naturally, Louis’ continued blatant rejection hurts a bit more than it should. 

In the beginning he’d been doing things more out of spite than anything else, simple shock value. He’d craved the reaction it drew out of him, the way his fiery eyes landed on Harry without missing a beat. 

Harry’s never had to fight for someone’s attention before. Good or bad, it’s all he ever seemed to get. His father constantly breathing down his neck, reminding him that he’d never be good enough. His mother, never sober, making him come down to entertain her friends with his awful music even at sixteen. His fans whom he’s incredibly grateful for, even though they follow him around and keep flashing their cameras even when he begs them to stop, pointing out every single one of his flaws underneath microscopes and on viral magazine covers. 

Genevieve, who was welcoming to him no matter the circumstance, no matter what he’d gotten himself into, no matter the impending consequences. The only person he’s ever truly trusted before. 

And then Louis. Harry doesn’t have an explanation for him just yet. 

He thinks, all things considered, he’d be willing to fight for Louis’ attention. Good or bad, it’s proof that Harry is  _ here _ , he’s still breathing. He hasn’t given up yet, although he’s thought about it a few times before. Gotten way too close to the edge before someone inevitably pulls him back - it would be bad for the label, he’s heard before. 

When he steps out of the shower later, he pulls on some clothes from his suitcase and heads for the window where he knows he can see Louis. The house across the street has large windows that mirror this one’s, though the actual home is much smaller in size. 

Settling down into the chair in it’s dimming light, Harry tries to act nonchalant as he glances over, squinting at Louis’ form on his own sofa. He can make out Genevieve’s cat curled up in his lap and a half-drunk cup of coffee resting on the side table. Louis’ eyes are focused to the side, probably on the television. 

He still looks upset, but the small reminders that Louis is living, is still here, too, make him smile. He hadn’t realized how much living in a dead woman’s home would make him yearn for a more invigorating livelihood. Surely Louis must be getting lonely too. 

It hasn’t been difficult to spot just how out of his element Louis is as well. Harry can see moving boxes in his house even from here when he cranes his neck the right way, evidence that, even though he’s lived there for years, something is missing. He’s got half a mind to tell Louis if he figures it out to let Harry know, too, so maybe he can finally shake the looming vacancy taking residence in his chest. 

Harry watches him with a small, unconscious grin for nearly thirty minutes before Louis catches him. He looks over and Harry startles, mouth opening like he might say something even though he’s alone and he knows Louis can’t see all that well. 

Louis tilts his head and for a second Harry thinks he might smile back, or wave. Harry braces himself for it, tensing on the edge of his seat as he gulps. 

He watches as Louis stands from his sofa and crosses the distance to his window, watching Harry back the entire time, before pulling the curtains shut in one fluid motion. 

_ Good or bad _ , Harry reminds himself. At least Louis knows he’s  _ here _ . 

+

Harry gets lost in the size of the house sometimes. Each room is bigger than his entire flat growing up, each wall adorned with photos and tasteful decor. Just one step into the home is enough to make anyone feel welcome. 

Except for him, apparently. 

Little has changed since the last time he was here. It seems like yesterday he’d slept in the guest master bedroom, a teenager terrified of what would come next. He’d taken advantage of Genevieve’s kindness. This time, he’s going to appreciate it as much as possible, as respectfully as possible. 

He begins by cleaning. The shop worker down the road had let him pick out anything he wanted free of charge but he’d left her several expensive bills for her kindness anyway. He’s got glass cleaner, shiner for the wood, and brooms, rags, and a dustpan to start with. 

If he’s being honest, he’s never had to do this before. The flat he grew up in was filthy most of the time since no one bothered to keep it tidy, littered with empty bottles and used syringes, and Harry’d spent all of his time trying to find ways to  _ not _ be there. 

Then Genevieve always kept the place spotless while he lived with her. Now, he doesn’t even think much about it. His hotel rooms and tour bus are always clean without him having to lift a finger. 

The thick sheen of dust over everything is first to go. Harry wipes off counter tops and bookshelves diligently, sneezing a few times when it gets in his face. 

He passes the pictures in the corridor and the ones hanging up in the upstairs landing before he makes it to his old room. Louis’ room now, he guesses, if he wants to be technical. Dark green drapes still hanging from the windows, it looks the same as Harry remembers it. Louis hadn’t moved any of the furniture. 

White linen still covers the bed, a quilt he knows Genevieve made herself. He pictures a younger version of himself sleeping in here, his old notebook laid out while he wrote down the lyrics inside of his head that never seemed to stop flowing out of him. He’d been so excited about his future plans. 

Then he thinks of Louis. Harry wonders if he knows it used to be his room, if he would’ve refused it if he had. 

Maybe he and Louis aren’t all that different, really. They’d both spent time here with Genevieve and, from what he’s gathered so far, they’ve both been through hard times. If he can’t get through to him any other way, perhaps they could bond over their shared trauma. 

Harry spares a self-deprecating smile at the thought and shuts the door again without cleaning anything. On the off-chance Louis sees it again, he probably wouldn’t have wanted Harry to touch it. It’s not Harry’s anymore, after all. 

He cleans the windows next, and then the countertops in the kitchen. By the time he’s finished, it’s already late in the afternoon. Just as he’s about to kick back on the sofa in the living room and eat dinner, Harry catches sight of the floor beneath his feet. 

There are footprints where he’s been walking, the contrast between the dust and clean hardwood prominent. He curses. 

Out of the hundreds of closets this place has, Harry figures, one of them has got to have a vacuum cleaner. He checks each one from the master bedroom to the downstairs pantry and washroom, coming up empty every time. 

It’s dark enough outside that he assumes the shop has already closed so he rules that out. Inside of his head, Harry runs through his options. 

Which ends up being only one thing, really. He’s got to call Louis. 

Frowning at the circumstance, he heads to the study and grabs the stack of papers from their last meeting, thumbing through the pages until he finds the contact information. 

It rings, the dial tone echoing in his ear for nearly thirty seconds until Louis picks up. 

“Hello?” He says. 

“Hey, Louis. It’s Harry.” 

He’s silent for a moment before Harry can hear him shifting around on the other side of the line, probably confused. 

“How did you get my phone number?” 

“It’s in the papers the attorneys gave us,” Harry sighs, “Look, can you help me with something?” 

“It depends,” Louis deadpans. 

Harry can hear his disinterest through the phone, picturing his narrowed eyes and subtle frown. He admires his honesty, he guesses. 

“I’m cleaning the house and I can’t find the vacuum. I know she’s got one somewhere but I’ve looked everywhere and I can’t find it,” he says, a bit exasperatedly. 

He hears Louis exhale, “Check the closet underneath the stairs.” 

Rounding the corner quickly, Harry’s brows raise in surprise when he sees there actually  _ is _ a small closet underneath the staircase. How did he miss that? He doesn’t remember it being there when he lived here before. 

The door opens with a creak, exposing all sorts of cleaning supplies, a stack of old calendars and photo books, and at the very back, the vacuum. 

“Thank you,” he tells Louis, the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he reaches back for it. “I’ve got it now. Thanks, Louis.” 

“No problem,” he mutters, promptly hanging up. 

Maybe Harry doesn’t know the house as well as he’d thought he did. It disappoints him a bit, that Louis doesn’t even have to try and he’s been searching for ages for something that was right in front of him the entire time. 

It’s the one feeling he’d been hoping to avoid moving out here - regret. In the back of his mind, Harry knows Louis should have gotten the house. He’d known that from the day they’d met. 

But the opportunity was too good to let go of. A chance to escape for a while, to rediscover himself after everyone telling him who he needs to be instead of it being his choice. The whole thing seemed like a movie he might’ve watched once on a hotel room television where the protagonist goes home from the big city life to find themselves. A quirky, feel-good storyline with just enough angst to make the climax all the more worth it. 

His own storyline doesn’t feel much like that. He can’t find any redeeming life lessons, no love interest, everything feels one-dimensional. It’s just Harry, still. Alone. 

Plugging the cord into the wall beside the door, he tries to shake off the melancholy. Sadness does little to motivate him to clean. Harry pushes the old, red vacuum across the floor in even strokes and tries not to wish he was a piece of dust on the ground, getting sucked up into alluring, black nothingness. 

+

The foreclosure sign in Louis’ front yard sticks out obnoxiously on the small, neutral colored street. Bright red and bigger than the mailbox in the yard, Harry wonders if Louis knows it’s there yet. 

It certainly came as a shock this morning when Harry had taken a jog around the neighborhood. He thinks vaguely about going over to ask him about it but thinks that’s probably a bit too forward. 

The insinuation is too much to consider all that deeply this early in the morning - all of the ‘why’s’ swimming around in his head. Louis could have sold Genevieve’s things, could’ve dug into the money she’d left him for the house. Harry knows he hasn’t, and that he’s probably not going to unless it’s something for her explicitly. 

He also wonders why Louis hasn’t just asked him for money. Most of his other acquaintances, less than that, sometimes, feel perfectly comfortable doing that no matter how well they get along. He’s kind of glad Louis hasn’t yet. 

Glad because it’s normal human decency, but also because thus far Louis has been like some sort of fever dream ever since he got here. Everything he finds annoying in a person and everything he’s ever found attractive all in one. If he’d asked Harry for money it would have tarnished that view a bit. 

But now he just feels bad for him. Guilty at the reminder that he’s immune to that sort of thing unlike everyone else, unlike Louis is. Sometimes Harry forgets things like this  _ can _ happen, let alone to people he knows. His selflessness only serves to add salt to the fresh wound. 

There is one solution, though, should he be required to resort to it. He’s thought about it in great detail over the last few hours since he’d gotten back to the house, determinedly staring into Louis’ front window (again). 

If all else fails, if Louis’ house gets foreclosed and he ends up without one, Harry will offer him a room at Genevieve’s. He’s got more than enough space and Louis’ former guest bedroom remains untouched down the corridor from his own, the very same bedroom Harry used to sleep in when he was here. 

For now, he’ll wait to see if he even needs to offer. Maybe Louis just missed a payment and he’ll get it all worked out. He can’t offer too soon - it needs to seem organic. Harry can feel the phantom pain of a slap across his cheek if he were to insinuate that Louis wasn’t capable of taking care of himself. 

From what he knows of him so far, he doesn’t dare assume anything without being sure. Louis is liable to get very, very angry if he does, if the past is any indication. Harry spends the rest of the day trying to decide whether he’s appalled or ecstatic at the idea of him and Louis being roommates. 

Would they have the same sleep schedule? Would Louis want to cook every night or would he rather have take out? Would he ignore Harry altogether? They’re questions he may never know the answer to, but the most important one is - why does he want to know them so badly? 

+

Over the next week, Harry distracts himself from Louis’ problems by trying to write again. He thinks all of the angst about Genevieve and coming back to this small town may have sparked something inside of him, some new emotion he hasn’t quite explored yet, but when he puts pen to paper nothing comes out. 

When he’d lived here in his last year as a teenager, he hadn’t been able to  _ stop _ writing. He’d had so many ideas in his head for lyrics and melodies and he’d filled up endless notebooks with his thoughts. He’d lay in bed each night and dream about getting signed to a label, singing his songs to sold out arenas every night to the chorus of a thousand screaming fans. 

He tries to fit himself into this narrative - into Geneveieve’s house that feels so much like a home. And it does, just not necessarily  _ his _ home. Not yet, anyway. He’s hoping as the days pass that things may feel differently. 

No matter how much he hopes though, nothing has changed. It’s obvious he doesn’t fit in here from the way he’s got no idea what to do with himself when he’s alone, the way the people from town treat him like some rare breed when he tries to buy something from them. It’s obvious because of Louis, too. 

Across the street, probably nestled into a fleece blanket with Genevieve’s cat on his lap, Louis embodies everything about the sleepy town. He fits. Despite his best efforts, Harry’s never  _ fit _ anywhere in his life. Not with his parents, not really even in LA or any of the other spots he typically stays for a few nights at a time, not at shows where people come specifically to see  _ him _ , and certainly not here. 

At first he’d hated how much Louis made sense. But then he’d realized he shouldn’t be taking it out on Louis because he’s got his life figured out and Harry doesn’t. 

As guilty as he feels admitting to it, the possibility of an impending foreclosure brings him back down to earth a bit. It makes Louis seem less like this perfect small-town London vision Harry’s got in his head and more flawed like everyone else, like himself. Which isn’t to say he’s happy about the circumstance by any means, but it levels them out just enough that Harry doesn’t feel completely, hopelessly alone anymore. 

This doesn’t mean he’s any more inspired. The old notebook remains empty as it moves from his bag to the desk, from the desk to the table, the table to the couch and back again. He’s missing a muse. 

He’s just about to pull his own hair out from frustration when he hears a loud thud against the side of the house. Frowning, Harry shuts the journal and grabs his phone, heading out to see what it was. 

“Louis?” He asks worriedly, rounding the corner, halfway expecting an intruder. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis dismisses him quickly, “I’m fine.” 

He’s on the ground beside a ladder propped up against the house, a can of paint tipped over laying a few yards away. The paint brush looks to have been thrown up in the air, landing haphazardly in the bush below. 

“Did you - did you fall off the ladder?” 

Harry’s eyes travel from the paint to where he’s clutching one of his ankles, sitting suspiciously curled in on himself. He can’t see his face. 

“I’m fine, Harry,” he insists, voice cracking slightly on the last syllable. 

With little argument, Harry spins to go head back inside. He pulls a frozen bag of peas from the freezer and a paper towel and jogs down the front steps. 

“Here,” he hands them to Louis. 

In his surprise he looks up to meet Harry’s eyes, tears swimming in them and threatening to overflow. To save him from embarrassment, Harry glances down and clears his throat until he takes them from him. 

Once he does he sets about cleaning the mess, righting the can of paint and slipping the top back on it, then setting the brush on top and moving at all out of the walkway. From the corner of his eye, he sees Louis hiss as he presses the frozen bag to his ankle. 

To give him a few more moments of privacy, Harry folds up the ladder and leans it near the rest of the supplies so it’ll be out of sight for now and hopefully make him less anxious. 

“Are you going to be okay to stand up?” He asks, gaze still trained on the ladder in front of him. 

“Fine, thanks.” Louis quips. 

Harry inhales and exhales slowly, doing his best to not get angry. He nods once in Louis’ general direction and then starts back on the path to the front. 

“Wait, Harry, I -” Louis sighs, “I’m sorry. Thank you - for the peas.” 

“Of course,” Harry smiles, or winces, really, at him and continues walking. 

He’s trying to be nice. Trying very, very hard. 

When he gets back upstairs to the study and sits back down, he’s no more inspired than he was when he left it. He shuts the journal again and shoves it into the top drawer, petty and annoyed and cursing the way he noticed that the color of the paint matched the blue of Louis’ eyes perfectly. 

+

Harry gets the first call at eight o’clock the next morning. It hits him in a sore spot because he’d only just tried unsuccessfully to start writing again. Also he’s never quite been a morning person and they seem insistent to only speak with him when he’s only just rolled out of bed. 

His label has never been very kind to him. Since he signed with them years back, they’ve only demanded more from him with each album. Looking back, Harry daydreams often about what his life would be like if he’d never been discovered. Then he tries to remember to be grateful for what he does have without constantly wondering if the grass would be greener on the opposite side. 

They’d sent him out here to detox for a bit, find some inspiration because apparently what he’d been working on wasn’t good enough. He agrees, for the record, but they hadn’t been so nice when they brought it to his attention. 

He’d gotten into - regrettably - several drunken brawls and a few hangover-induced instances of public indecency one too many times for their liking. For his  _ own _ liking, too, he just hadn’t known how to stop. With the fast lifestyle he was living, it never seemed possible. 

Now he’s here and it feels like time passes as slow as it’s taking Louis to paint the front side of the house. Each second seems like hours when Harry finally allows himself to glance at the clock again. It’s always only been a few minutes. 

Thus far they’ve left him alone. Harry’d been optimistic the first couple of weeks. He’d been foolish to think they wouldn’t catch up with him at some point. 

“How are you?” His manager clips. 

“I’m okay,” he says, “trying to get some writing done, actually.” 

Harry glances sideways at his closed notebook from the bed and hopes they can’t sense him lying through the phone. 

“That’s great,” she tells him blankly, “you know that’s why we sent you out there.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

He nods with a sigh, leaning on the counter with a hand covering half of his face.  _ How could he have forgotten _ ? 

“We just wanted to check in, see how the process is coming along.”

Fighting the scoff threatening to bubble out of his lips, he inhales slowly before letting it out. She’s got no idea how his process works. She doesn’t have a creative bone in her body - none of them do. That’s why they push him so hard, parade him around like an animal. 

“It’s fine. Is there anything else you needed?” 

“No. You have a good day, Harry.” 

“Yeah, you too,” he hangs up before the words are completely out. 

He can’t  _ not _ answer them because he doesn’t want to be let go. At the same time, though, Harry’s pretty sure they need him more than he needs them at this point. He’ll have to decide if he wants to test the theory. 

When he was younger he’d dreamt of having his own label, finding new talent and managing them in a way that allowed them to have their own creative freedom with less focus on the popularity aspect. He still wants to, really, but there never seems to be a right time. 

_ Not right now _ , they’d told him. They always keep him right on the edge but never actually confident enough to do it. He’s at the peak of his career, they remind him. Why would he want to give that up for something that may or may not work out? Does he  _ really _ want to take the risk? 

Frankly, yes. He does. But just like every other time, now really  _ isn’t _ the time to do that. He’s got the house to work out still, and Louis. It isn’t that long of a list but the implications have him stressed already. They aren’t simple things he can check off. In order to get them done he;ll need to put in serious time and effort. No one is going to do this for him here. 

When he looks over this time the clock reads  _ 8:04 _ . Harry groans, covering his head with the pillow and trying to fall back asleep for as long as possible and ignore everything else he’s got to do. 

+

Bags full of groceries, the first thing Harry sees when he pulls into the driveway the following evening is Louis, bent over in the front yard tending to the plants. Mentally bracing himself, he steps out of the car and heads toward the front door to put them away. 

“Louis,” he acknowledges. 

He isn’t graced with a reply. 

Rolling his eyes, Harry ignores him back and unloads the bags leisurely, not in a rush to go back outside. Unfortunately he only had a few of them and he’s finished in under five minutes. He stands at the front window for a few minutes before he works up the courage to go back out and attempt conversation. 

“Do you need any help?” 

Louis’ lip curls, “Not from you.” 

Sparing a long glance across the empty yard and walkway, Harry hums at the sight before turning back to him. 

“No one else is here, so.” 

“It’s the thought that counts,” he snarks. 

“You know, if you’re just going to be rude you’re more than welcome to go back to your own house,” Harry spits without thinking. 

It sounds hateful even in his own ears but he’s not sure how much longer he can take the attitude. He doesn’t even feel that guilty until he sees the tears in Louis’ eyes. Slowly, they flick from Harry’s shoes to the foreclosure sign across the street. 

It hits him at once - Louis  _ can’t _ go back to his own house. He’s been over here almost every day for a month now and, whether that’s the reason he’s losing his own house or not, Harry feels guilty for snapping at him. 

“I- I’m sorry, Louis,” he says, “you don’t have to leave.” 

Harry sidesteps some stray potted plants Louis hasn’t planted yet and stands at the very top of the steps so he can see him better without having to yell. Louis stands motionless at the bottom, clutching the plant stems tightly in his fist. 

“Do you have somewhere to go?” 

Louis winces visibly at the question, but Harry has to know. The plan he’d come up with last week rolls around inside of his head. 

Throwing up a shoulder half-heartedly, Louis doesn’t answer him. Sucking in a steadying breath, Harry assumes he’ll have to be the bigger person here. He clears his throat. 

“You can stay here, if you want. In the guest room -  _ your _ room,” he corrects. 

A twitch of his eyebrow suggests Louis hadn’t been expecting the correction. Still, he keeps silent and stares down at the roses in his hands, ready to be planted. He runs a careful finger over the flowers and bites his lip. 

“I don’t know what else to offer you, Louis,” Harry explains softly. 

“I don’t need you to offer me anything,” he retorts quickly this time, although softly, “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself without your help.” 

Harry keeps quiet and tries not to be offended while Louis works through the scenario in his head. He huffs a few times and crosses and uncrosses his arms while he paces in the small space at the bottom of the stairs, face crumpling into a defeated grimace. 

“I know it’s not how you wanted to live in it,” Harry runs an exasperated hand through his hair, “but it’s something, yeah?” 

In his head, Harry elaborates.  _ ‘Something’ _ means having a roof over his head at night, not having to worry about picking up extra jobs or living in a too-small flat in the city. It means Louis trading his pride for his well being so he can stay on the street he seems to love so dearly. He doesn’t point any of this out. 

At the bottom of the steps, Louis’ face falls. Once or twice he opens his mouth, then promptly closes it again. He glances off to the side with his brows furrowed. 

Honestly, Harry wouldn’t blame him if he said no. It’d be understandable, with how he treated Louis in the beginning, before he knew him properly. Still, if he does say no, Harry doesn’t know if he’ll be able to offer much else. He’s got the money to pay for Louis to live anywhere he wants but it’s been so nice to not have to offer up that part of himself just yet. 

Whether it’s true or not, it makes the situation feel like Louis doesn’t really care about if he’s famous or not. Like he couldn’t care less, more specifically. Harry gets drunk off of it sometimes. 

So he waits for the inevitable plot twist, for Louis to demand to be put up in a fancy hotel or posh flat in the city. Maybe, Harry thinks fleetingly, Louis will even run to the gossip magazines that he’s sure will be waiting to hear where he’s been if Harry says no, telling everyone how he’s a heartless man with no actual substance at all. 

Maybe he’ll tell them he’s the only one that’s been able to see straight through Harry’s act for years, through to the shell of the man he once was before the fame. How Harry fills in the gaps with men and women and other stimulants and is actually afraid that all of that has negatively affected his ability to produce anything creative in the future, consequently ending his career in its prime. Maybe - 

“Okay,” Louis says. 

Or maybe Louis doesn’t know any of these things at all. Maybe he’s just as scared and insecure as Harry is, just in different ways. 

“Great, that’s great. We can start moving your things tomorrow,” Harry shakes himself out of his daze to answer. 

“Okay,” he says again. 

Louis doesn’t move for another few minutes. He stands there with his arms crossed protectively across his chest until it’s so dark that Harry can barely make him out anymore, but he knows he’s there. Behind him, a single red mustang drives slowly down the road but Harry pays it little attention. 

Simultaneously, he feels relieved and empty. Not necessarily a bad feeling, but more like a blank slate. He’s been torn down over and over again the past few years. If he can make this work out, he’ll have a shot at rebuilding from the ground up again - the right way this time. 

Maybe, with Louis living under the same roof, they’ll finally be able to fill in the missing, lonely pieces he’d once thought were too far broken to put back together again. 

+

The night before Louis moves in, Harry decides to finally make use of the giant pool outside the back windows. He’s been staring at it for days now, each time he sits down to eat breakfast in the morning and when he passes by it to go to bed at night. It casts a sunny reflection over the furniture sometimes, as if calling him to it. 

He hadn’t thought to pack a bathing suit when he’d haphazardly thrown together half of his clothes, doesn’t really remember having one at all. Regrettably, if there’d been a pool or hot tub around, Harry usually just stripped and jumped in completely nude. More than half of those times he’d not been anywhere near sober. 

Once, he’d even pretended to drown himself as a joke at a party. It hadn’t actually been a joke at the time, though, and no one had laughed. 

After making sure the front door is locked, he heads out to the back porch and sets a towel next to the edge of the water just as the sun is beginning to set. The sunlight glints prettily over the small currents in the pool, Harry’s eyes following the smooth movement of blue and yellow. 

The entire backyard feels so serene that he considers coming out here more often, though he figures Louis would just find something else about it to make fun of him for. His backstroke or the way he holds his breath, how he looks with his wet hair matted down to his head. 

It’s the right thing to do - offering Louis a place to live. Harry knows that. He just hopes it goes half as good as their last couple of conversations have, without the yelling and bickering from before. Harry’d pull his hair out if he had to hear that every day. He can deal with a bit of passive aggressiveness. He can’t deal with plain meanness. 

Lifting his shirt off and setting it on one of the chairs, he sets his jeans there as well before approaching the steps. He hisses when he dips a toe into the water experimentally. It’s freezing cold right now, at dusk, but Harry holds his breath and sticks his legs in anyway. 

Once he’s waded in far enough that it’s up to his chest, he ducks his entire head underneath in one motion to get over the initial shock. 

He holds his breath for a few seconds, big air bubbles in his cheeks with his eyes clenched shut. His ears ring loudly in the calmness of the large pool. Arms floating out to his sides and legs suspended, Harry feels weightless. 

His eyes open just before he hits the surface of the water on his way back up, breaking through the barrier again as cold air hits his cheeks. He doesn’t think about drowning once. It’s progress. 

If he’s lucky, tonight will be his last night of all-encompassing, seemingly never-ending loneliness. If he’s not, everything stays the same. 

Harry floats still on top of the slow moving water. It rocks him gently, lulling his eyes back shut with his hands flat beside him. He wonders what Louis’ doing right now, if he’s sad or nervous about leaving the only home he’s ever known. 

Then he wonders what it’s like to know you’re really home in the first place. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in the playlist i listened to while writing for inspiration, you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/116fXxzCKtUGmOUEKQYWW8?si=RqQ8J9iVTmm1K-uU_8b6gQ). 
> 
> you can reblog this fic [here](https://soldouthaz.tumblr.com/post/611365688876105728/make-this-feel-like-home-43k-the-house-on-west) :)


	3. 3.0

_ Louis _

It rains on the day they move his things over. Louis tries not to consider it a bad omen for what’s to come but the thought lingers despite his best efforts. 

Harry isn’t deterred at all by the weather, backing his car up into Louis’ driveway to load the heavy boxes and then pulling across to Genevieve’s to unload them. Only a few times Louis gets distracted by the thick, tattooed biceps, and then he scolds himself for the next ten minutes. 

He cannot be having these thoughts if they’re moving in together. Shouldn’t be having them at all, really. Louis curses his lonely existence out loud to Bea’s uncaring stare before picking up some of the lighter boxes to carry over himself. 

It takes them two days to get everything out, even though all of his things were mostly still packed. Louis brings boxes to the front porch and Harry moves them inside. When they get finished at the end of the second day, Harry wipes light sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand before turning to face him. 

“Do you want to come over tonight, or…?” He trails off. 

“I think I’m going to stay at mine. Just for one last night, you know?” 

“Of course,” Harry nods, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.” 

Louis watches him leave until his front door is shut, then moves to head back to his own empty house. 

Everything from the curtains to the only picture he had up on the wall has been taken down, but it doesn’t look much different than it did before. It still feels just as empty. Bea’s bowl is the only thing left besides some food in the fridge, a banana on the counter. Louis eats that for dinner, then heads to what used to be his bedroom, a lone mattress in the middle of the floor. 

The one in his bedroom at Genevieve’s is much comfier than his, he remembers, so he’d decided to leave it here to be disposed of. Dragging his feet, he sits down on the edge of it and looks around. 

He’s never really liked this house, he realizes. It was a place for him to sleep but served little other purpose for him. The best years of his life were spent here but he can’t attribute any of that to these hollow walls - that’d all been Genevieve. 

As apprehensive as he is to move in with Harry, a small part of him is excited. It’ll be good to be back in that house. Familiar in a way that he thinks will be able to make him feel less emotionally unstable like he has the past few weeks. 

Her funeral had given Louis some closure but not really enough. A delusional part of his brain will only be satisfied once he goes back in and sees for himself that she’s no longer there. It’s been so long since he’s been so lonely that he’s forgotten how much it hurts. 

It’s a physical ache in his chest, his stomach turning even though he hasn’t eaten much. Breath leaving him abruptly, Louis falls back onto the bare mattress. 

The ceiling fan circles slowly overhead and he traces the pattern with his eyes until he’s dizzy. At some point Bea hops up beside him, circling twice before plopping down next to his hip contentedly. 

Louis reaches a hand down to stroke her fur and wonders if she’s feeling any of the same things. Genevieve adopted her as a kitten almost twelve years ago now, he’s sure she notices the absence. 

“It’ll be okay,” he tells her. 

They’ll be fine. Living with Harry will be interesting but the house is so large that Louis can avoid him if he needs to. He knows every hallway like the back of his hand, but he forgets sometimes that Harry once did, too. 

“It’ll be okay,” he tells himself. 

He cuddles Bea to his chest and tries to keep his eyes shut long enough to fall asleep. It shouldn’t take long, without the noise of the clock and the plant in the living room that used to fall over during the night. 

Louis tries four separate times to fall asleep before he gives up, sits alone in the middle of the empty living room, and cries until there is sunlight coming in through the front window. 

+

“C’mon,” Louis whispers, “Just do it. Just -” 

Harry’d gone out to get them something for lunch after he’d noticed Louis standing outside this morning. He should be back any second. Louis was sort of hoping he’d have gotten over this by now but the tremors in his hands seem to prove otherwise. 

He’s standing before the threshold of Genevieve’s, hesitating to go in. There must be a mental block somewhere in his brain preventing him from moving forward, he figures. His throat feels too tight to swallow properly and he lifts his foot over and over again, only to set it back down disappointedly. 

Glancing up, Louis can see inside the home perfectly. He can feel the texture of the wood on his bare feet, smell the pastries baking in the kitchen. He  _ knows _ this house. He’s comfortable in this house. 

So why can’t he just - 

“Louis?” 

Harry jogs up the front steps with bags in each of his hands. Side-stepping Louis to get in to set them down, he purses his lips and tilts his head at him. 

“Everything alright?” He asks. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just - I’m great.” 

He disappears into the kitchen for a minute before coming back around the corner and leaning against the door frame. 

“You haven’t been back in here yet,” Harry reads him like an open book. 

Surprised that he was able to pin-point it so easily, Louis blanches and scoffs. 

“Everything’s fine. I’m just,” he hesitates for a few seconds, “admiring the architecture.” 

Louis takes several hard looks at the pillars and the slope of the roof above him to prove his own point. Harry doesn’t seem convinced. 

“Okay,” he relents, sitting down a few feet inside the doorway with his legs crossed. 

“Are you just going to sit there?” Louis tries not to whine. 

“Yes.” 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he fights to keep the frustrated tears from revealing themselves. He’s been so emotional the past month and he’s getting tired of it. 

But also, this is something he probably needs to do by himself. Even if he wanted to have someone here, Harry would be the last one on his list. If he made the list at all. 

It’s just a step. As simple as lifting one foot and walking forward. And still, he can’t do it. 

“Why can’t you come in?” Harry’s voice startles him. 

Louis snaps his eyes up to glare at him. 

“You know why,” he grits. 

“Sorry,” he shrugs lightly, leaning back on his hands, “I don’t think I do.” 

He appraises Louis much the same way he did when they first met and it only serves to make Louis that much angrier. Fists clenching at his sides, he glares at where the concrete meets the hardwood below him and exhales shakily. 

“I just can’t, okay?” 

“Suit yourself, then,” Harry breathes. “Although, it is pretty nice in here. Would be a shame if you never got to experience it.” 

Shoulders shaking with a disbelieving laugh, Louis tosses his head back sarcastically. 

“Excuse you, I have experienced it. I’ve been over here a million times. I know exactly what’s in there.” 

“You sure aren’t acting like it,” Harry doesn’t miss a beat, smirking up at him. 

“You know - you think you can just come back here and pick up where you left off. You think you can take all of this for granted when I was the one who was supposed to have it in the first place,” Louis rambles. 

Harry’s face remains unreadable. He glances down at Louis’ feet and then back up to his face. 

“You’re right,” he says, “I don’t deserve it. But I couldn’t let you have it.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me? You have - you have no idea what books Genevieve liked, what kind of tea she made. You don’t know anything. I do. I was  _ here _ ,” Louis seethes, “No matter how much you think you do know, you’ll always be just a famous boy with a bad reputation and parents who didn’t want him.” 

This time, Harry swallows thickly and brings his legs up to his chest. 

When he just stares at Louis’ feet, Louis looks down defensively to see the hardwood beneath him. Only then does he realize what Harry’d been trying to do. 

Louis is inside. 

+

Being back in Genevieve’s house is not as shocking as he’d thought it might be. Everything looks the same for the most part, though he can see the areas Harry tried to clean. 

After he stepped past the threshold Harry had pushed himself off of the ground and retired to his own room without a sound. Mouth falling open, Louis had wanted to say something, to apologize, but nothing came out. 

It’s the only nice thing Harry’s ever done for him and he ruined it. Unintentionally, but still very badly and with little hope of him accepting Louis’ meak  _ sorry _ he’ll have to find time to utter out. 

The entire first day he doesn’t see him again. Louis spends his time putting some of his things away in his room and watching Bea excitedly trot to each of the places she used to frequent, rubbing her little head against the soft pillows and furniture. 

It feels surreal to be inside of it again with the purpose of making it his own. Surprisingly, though, it doesn’t feel wrong or like he’s taking advantage of anything. It’s just familiar. 

Sometimes he wishes he had a home to go back to. A proper family one with his parents inside instead of six feet in the ground. In another life he’d have wanted siblings and a dog and loving grandparents and a healthy mom and proper dad. 

Life for him could have been much, much worse though. The last thing he would do is take any of the kindness he’s been shown for granted. It’s just - he needs to work on paying it forward. 

And he would start with Harry, if he had any idea how. He’s still angry about the situation but there’s even less he can do now to change it. Louis figures he’d be better off just finding a way to be okay with it. 

_ Easier said than done _ , he thinks. 

He heads downstairs sometime in the afternoon to fetch the vacuum from under the stairs. Then he tries not to wonder about why every room in the house has been vacuumed except for his. 

Evening passes in a blur of cleaning, wiping windows and organizing his things in the proper places. The room is large enough to house nearly all of his belongings, which - it hits him all at once just how little he has. How little value the things he does have hold. 

Stomach grumbling, he heads down again to find some food. The pantry and cabinets are empty when he checks but the fridge seems promising. His brows furrow when he sees the sticky note attached to the takeout box:  _ Louis _ . 

Inside, there’s an array of different chinese options to choose from. Louis picks up the chow mein and some fried rice and takes it back up to his room to eat. He doesn’t see Harry once, or Bea. 

He doesn’t know why, but a part of him was sort of hoping Harry would force him out with a biting comment, some sort of retaliation that would put them back on speaking terms. But Louis doesn’t much deserve the effort after his outburst, he figures, so he can’t be too angry. 

Louis’ first night in the house is spent upstairs, alone. He has trouble falling asleep in the large, comfortable for the first time in years and refuses to think about why. 

+

The next morning he’s awake before the sun rises outside of his upstairs window. The group of paint cans have moved from the corner of his old living room to the corner of Genevieve’s front porch for easier reach, but little else has changed since the move. 

He isn’t expecting it to, really. Just because he’s living in the same house as Harry doesn’t guarantee sudden friendship. His expectations are low for even light small talk at this point, but Louis knows he only has himself to blame. 

It’s the last thing he’s expecting when the front door swings open, Harry skipping down the steps with mugs in his hands. 

“Thought you might like something to drink,” he says, holding one out for Louis to take. 

Sighing, he grazes the back of Harry’s hand with his fingers as he grabs it to bring up to his lips. 

“Thank you,” he nods. 

Harry stares at the wall contemplatively for a few seconds before reaching down and picking up a brush himself. 

“Oh, you don’t have to -” 

“I want to,” he says, dipping it in the paint, “if that’s alright.” 

And of course it’s alright. In an effort to make up for his hateful words, Louis thinks he may let him do just about anything he wants. Then he remembers the last time he was out here. 

“You don’t have to stay because I fell,” Louis deflates slightly, “I won’t try to climb up there again.” 

A flicker of movement catches his attention in the street. Louis turns just in time to catch the tail end of a red mustang driving slowly past. Furrowing his brows, he frowns and tries to brush it off. 

“I’m not worried, Louis. Just helping,” Harry insists. 

Feeling a bit better that he isn’t just here because of his clumsiness, Louis takes another long sip of his drink. It’s tea, he realizes, still warm and just how he likes it. He’s forgotten how much better it is than the bitter coffee he forces down his throat every morning. 

He paints with the same purpose but it feels much less daunting this time. Harry’s already got a good amount of the wood covered, his big hands working quickly over the surface. It’s mesmerizing, a bit, to watch him add on smooth layers. Louis clears his throat to shake himself out of the daze. 

His own portion of the wall seems disproportionate now. The coat he’d had on his brush has gone stale so he dips another one and tries to focus even though he’s hyper-aware of every movement from beside him. 

As nice as it is, this only adds bitter salt to his wound. Harry should be yelling at him, trying to hurt him back. He should  _ not _ be helping him right now. 

“I’m really sorry, Harry. It wasn't my place to say any of those things." 

Louis doesn’t glance over this time, keeping his eyes firmly on his work as his face colors from his honesty. Rarely is he ever vulnerable, but this feels necessary even from him. 

“S’okay,” Harry says quietly, flashing Louis a hint of a smile before turning back to the wall. 

The hours rush by with both of them helping, the entire taped-off section complete by noon. He tries not to get distracted by the image of Harry curled in on himself yesterday swirling around inside of his head. 

Painting becomes a thing after that. On the days when Louis goes outside in the mornings Harry makes them tea and brings it outside to warm up, then dips in and helps him. The process moves much quicker with more than one person. Then, when their arms begin to hurt, Louis makes them sandwiches and they put everything away to make plans for the next day. 

To his surprise, it doesn’t stop at that. Harry asks to see the list and goes down to the store to get what he can. He calls in help for the things they absolutely can’t do - his first priority being someone to paint the higher areas of the house. Louis’ face flushes red when he insists. 

It’s something he begins to look forward to every day. When they’re working together the situation feels more cohesive, like they’ve got a common goal now. He’s somewhat come to terms with the fact that the house will never be solely his. If he’s got to share it, at least Harry’s also interested in improving and preserving it the way he is. 

All in all, he’s still bitter, but things could be a lot worse. 

+

Bea is a lovely cat, but she is the loudest one Louis has ever been in contact with. Her meow is more of a screech when she wants it to be, which is anytime she’s hungry, too cold, too hot, or just generally wanting to be a brat. 

She was always quite spoiled with Genevieve so Louis understands, or, he tries to. But in the mornings - he’s  _ this _ close to shutting her outside until she stops whining so much. Burying his face in the pillow doesn’t even filter most of it, her incessant mewls like claws on a chalkboard. 

Most of the time it isn’t an issue because she sleeps in the bed with him. Usually she’s stretching her short legs just as Louis’ opened his own eyes. He writes it off as her being happy to be back in the house and tries to fall back asleep. 

He doesn’t. 

Instead, he rolls off the side of the bed, slides on a shirt, and slinks down the stairs without checking his reflection. Eyes shut, he rubs his temples as he hits the last step. 

“What the hell are you meowing about?” He asks on a groan. 

“Oh, sorry,” Harry laughs. 

Louis blinks hard so his eyes will focus and moves his hand to get a proper look. Was - was  _ Harry _ meowing? Louis’ so tired. 

“I was just playing with Bea here,” he gestures, “she quite likes the new toys I’ve gotten her.” 

Playfully, he swirls around the cat toy again in front of her face. It’s one of the obnoxious ones, a long purple stick with several bells and trinkets on the end for her to chase. 

Bea is more lively than he’s ever seen her, jumping backwards and forwards as she swats at the colorful feathers. Even when she was young he can’t remember her being so excited. Despite the impending headache from being woken up, Louis smiles fondly at her. 

“I’m sorry we woke you up, I can put it away.” 

“No, no,” Louis stops him, “she loves it. You should keep playing with her.” 

Harry grins brightly from the sofa. Bea’s screeching seems suspiciously like subtle background noise now. Still sleep-hazy, Louis walks over to the edge of the sofa and sits down only a cushion away from him. 

“It took her three years to be around me without hissing, you know,” Louis recalls. 

He’s not sure why he says it, really, because the last thing he wants is to remind them of how perfect Harry is and how perfect Louis isn’t. Still, it gets him laughing, raising his eyebrows like he isn’t surprised. 

“Well, I don’t know if anyone’s told you,” he leans in, “but you’re not the friendliest at first.” 

“Really, now? And here I was thinking that was the whole reason you asked me to move in,” Louis says, shocked at his own positive attitude. 

He watches the sway of the toy as Bea claws his foot accidentally. She hops from foot to foot and then jumps high in the air for the final catch. Harry moves backward into the couch, keeping it just out of her reach. 

“I’ve never seen her like this,” he whispers, trying not to disturb her spirited mood. 

Harry shrugs like it was no big effort, “She just needed the right motivation,” he smiles. “Also, she could stand to lose a few pounds.” 

“Hey, I think she looks great,” Louis whines, pouting sarcastically. 

As if to spite him, Bea stops moving and glances over at Louis, hisses once, then returns to playing. 

“Ah,” Louis squawks. 

“Ha, you were right,” Harry barks, “she really doesn’t like you.” 

With a middle finger held toward her spot on the ground, Louis stands to head to the kitchen. 

“I’m hungry. Do we have any food here?” 

He’s already rifling through the fridge when Harry responds. Empty shelves stare back at him. 

“I don’t think so,” he says, “but the lady at the cafe in town said she’d let me eat free if I came in for breakfast sometime.” 

“Of course she did,” Louis chuckles. “Well, I’ll pay you for it if you’ll bring me something back -” 

“Oh, I was, uhm, I meant we could go together. If you want.” 

Spinning around in the doorway, he glances curiously at Harry when he stutters. He wants Louis to go with him? That doesn’t sound right. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah, of course,” he nods. 

“Okay, uh, let me get some clothes on and I’ll be down in five.” 

With that, he scampers up the steps, nearly missing one or two, and opens the doors to the only half-unpacked wardrobe. After trying on several and wasting his five minutes completely, he settles on a casual blue tee shirt and jeans. He slaps himself in the face a few times to wake up in the dirty mirror and runs a hand through his lopsided bedhead. 

He’s going to get breakfast with Harry Styles. That’s fine. 

+

True to his word, the lady behind the counter squeals excitedly when they walk into the small cafe. It’s the only one for another few miles and has significantly lower quality food and wait staff but it’s close to home. Louis’ always appreciated that. 

“Harry, you came back!” 

Chuckling awkwardly, Harry gives her a one-arm hug when she tackles him sideways, planting a big kiss on his cheek. 

“Yeah, we didn’t have any food at the house.” 

She looks around Harry, her eyes falling on Louis’ shorter stance before her brows draw up in surprise. 

“Oh, did you - Louis? What are you doing here?” 

“Hey, Tabitha,” he waves instead of answering her. 

“You two know each other?” She asks coyly. 

“Yeah, we -”

“We’re neighbors,” Louis cuts Harry off with a grimace. 

“That’s right,” she nods, “the old house on West 28th. S’a real shame about Genevieve. I’m so sorry, hon.” 

Accepting a pat on the shoulder, Louis smiles politely. Harry seems to sense his discomfort as he clears his throat to get her attention again. 

“We actually need a table, if you have one. For two.” 

Tabitha leads them to a secluded booth even though no one else is dining. Louis’ sat here many times before, has each of the tears in the leather and old stains on the table memorized without having to check which one he’s at. 

“Did Louis tell you ‘bout the time he won the pancake contest?” She asks cheekily, passing them menus with a hand on her hip. 

“I don’t believe he did, no,” Harry tilts his head interestedly. 

“Tabitha,” he tries to stop her. 

She ignores him. Leaning into Harry’s personal space, her voice sounds conspiratorial as she fills him in on the details. 

“Every year we have this contest to see who can eat the most pancakes in an hour. Louis was taking Genevieve out for breakfast with some of her friends and they wanted him to enter. He said no but they wouldn’t leave him alone.” 

Eyes flicking between her and Louis, Harry smirks at him from behind his menu. 

“And then he gave in?” 

“Sure did,” she laughs, clapping a hand on Louis’ shoulder. “Little guy ate more than fifty of them while they cheered him on. We had to scrub the vomit from the bathroom floor for weeks.” 

“Did he at least win?” Harry grins. 

Tabitha points behind them to a plaque hanging on the far wall, an older picture of himself with Genevieve in the background, syrup covering his chin but a large smile on his younger face. Regrettably, the corners of Louis’ mouth turn up. 

“You’re damn right I did,” he says. 

After cracking a few more poorly-timed jokes she heads off to the kitchen to let them look over the menu. 

“I had no idea you liked pancakes so much.” 

“Shut up,” Louis growls. “I only did it because it made Genevieve so happy.” 

Harry’s eyes find his hesitantly when he brings up her name, like he’s afraid Louis may get upset. If he’s honest, Louis’ surprised he hadn’t. The wound is still sore but it doesn’t ache and burn the way it did immediately after. Maybe not being alone has been good for him. 

“What are you getting,” he changes the subject. 

Across the booth, Harry hums and flips the pages as he scans the options. 

“M’not much in the mood for pancakes anymore, so,” he glances pointedly at Tabitha, still staring at them from behind the counter, “but I was thinking maybe an omelette.” 

“Their omelettes are amazing,” he agrees. 

“Two omelettes coming right up!” Tabitha shouts, disappearing into the back room. 

Louis rolls his eyes at her fondly before focusing them on his clasped hands on the table. 

“Sorry about her,” he shakes his head, “she can be a bit much sometimes.” 

“That’s alright, I’m pretty used to it by now,” Harry waves a hand at him. 

Inside of his head Louis pictures a life where everyone knew his name and wanted his attention. He can’t, really. 

“Does it get old sometimes? Everyone recognizing you, I mean.” 

“Sometimes,” Harry concedes, “but usually I like it. It reminds me, I don’t know, that I’m like, seen. I don’t feel like I’m going to fade away as much.” 

Thumbs stilling on the table where he’d been twiddling them, Louis catalogues the way Harry freezes in his seat like he’d said too much. Louis tries to help him play it off with a light agreement - he knows what that feels like. 

There have been many instances where, if he goes too long without talking to people, Louis gives out way too much information practically to strangers. He’s felt the same stutter Harry is right now, the sharp panic of wondering if a line has been crossed. 

If he was brave, he might’ve reassured Harry that it was okay. Louis wouldn’t tell anyone. Instead, he nods and rushes to think of another topic to cover it up with. It’s a conversation neither of them are ready to have yet. 

“Genevieve used to order the blueberry pancakes.” 

A startled laugh bubbling from his lips, Harry seems grateful. 

“Really?” He asks, “Now that I think about it, she did have an awful lot of those in her freezer when I lived there.” 

“Yep. Covered with way too much syrup and a tall glass of orange juice.” 

“She had peculiar taste,” he hums amusedly. 

Excusing himself a few minutes later, Louis stands to head to the restroom before their food arrives. He traces the familiar steps to the back room and lets himself inside, locking the door behind him. 

It’s as he’s washing his hands that he catches sight of himself in the mirror again, hair unbrushed where it stands up from his head. Dark bags circle his under eyes and the collar of his shirt is wrinkled even though he’d just gotten it from the closet. 

No wonder Tabitha had given him a hard time. He looks horrendous. Decidedly  _ not _ the type of person Harry would be having breakfast with. Shaking off the bitter hint of insecurity creeping up underneath his skin, he heads back out to the table. 

Tabitha’s voice, even as a whisper, comes out loud and croaky from years of smoking. Louis hovers around the corner when he hears his name. 

“Louis just - he’s such a good person, you know? And he always came in with Genevieve and the girls but he never -  _ had _ anyone else. Which is insane to me because he’s amazing. Always helping out any way he can. I just wish someone would see that.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says simply. “He seems very nice.”

Louis can’t pinpoint the tone, but he knows it isn’t good. Pity or sympathy or something in between the two that makes him nauseous all over again. 

“I think - I think sometimes he gets lonely,” she says quietly. “And he’s getting older now-” 

“Food’s here already?” Louis asks, speeding around the corner, “I hope you brought me extra salsa.” 

Despite her open mouth, Tabitha shakes her head and smiles, “Of course. You know I need every one of those tips you leave me.” 

Louis stares at her awkward smile until she walks away again. She’s done enough damage for today. 

He regards his steaming hot omelette that sounded amazing when he’d ordered it. Now, he isn’t sure if he can stomach it. Grabbing the fork, he pushes it around on the plate without touching the salsa. 

“What’s the matter?” Harry asks, “Is something not right? We can send it back.” 

“No, it’s good. I just, uhm, need some salt, s’all,” he scrambles to lie. 

Harry doesn’t question him when he doesn’t reach for the salt. He bites into his own omelette instead and groans at the taste, praises on his lips. 

“This really is amazing,” Harry talks around his food. 

Grease drips down the side of his chin and onto the table below. Louis grimaces. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I always eat like, fancy food,” he explains. “I haven’t had anything like this in a while.” 

It should probably offend him that Harry’s basically saying he hasn’t had  _ poor people  _ food in a while but in truth it just makes him feel smug. Proud, almost, that he can share this part of his small town life and have it be appreciated by someone of Harry’s status.

He picks at his own plate while Harry devours his before ordering another side of bacon and eggs. Tabitha glances at Louis sheepishly when she writes it down until she gets back to the kitchen. 

As he begins to collect small details Harry lets on about his lifestyle, Louis thinks he must be pretty lonely in his own way, too. Never staying in one place for too long, never having a stable schedule, always balancing excessive social interaction with none at all. Louis could never do that. 

“Why did you come back?” 

Harry stops halfway through another large bite, pausing briefly before swallowing it down in one gulp and turning to face him. With a tinkling noise, his fork clangs on the edge of the plate as he sets it down gently. 

It’s the question Louis’ been dying to know ever since he did come back. There’s less of an edge to it now that they aren’t mortal enemies, but the curiosity remains. After Tabitha’s tidbit, he feels like he has more of a right to know. Harry seems to understand. 

“I needed to take a break from - everything. It just so happened that Genevieve passed away when things really got bad. My team suggested I come out here to cool down and get myself together.” 

Refusing to meet Louis’ eyes, Harry looks ashamed. And honest. 

“Thank you for telling me,” Louis says. 

He nods. 

“Is there anything else you want to know?” 

Louis considers the question in his head, “Not right now.” 

When Harry doesn’t immediately pick up his fork to resume eating, Louis realizes the implication. Biting the inside of his cheek, he clears his throat. 

“Was there anything  _ you _ wanted to know?” He asks Harry. 

“Are you lonely, Louis?” 

Louis gives a quick, defensive laugh and crosses his arms over his chest as he thinks about if he’s going to answer honestly or not. Glancing over to the side as a distraction, he notices the plaque again. Tabitha smiles lightly at him where she’s wiping down the front counter. Every few seconds the wind blows the door open and the small bell tinkles, but no one ever comes in. Eventually, he looks back to Harry. 

“Yes.” 

Harry nods again. 

“Me too,” he says. 

Instead of the same pity he’d heard in his voice before, Harry sounds genuine. For a second, he sounds optimistic. Loneliness is not something he would have ever considered to be a positive thing. He’s about to point that out, too, when Harry chokes on a piece of pepper, coughing into his fist and reaching for his water and completely ruining the sentimental moment. 

Pushing it into his hands, Louis raises his brows as he gulps it down. 

“Ah,” he hisses, “that was hot.” 

Harry wipes at his tongue with the paper napkin trying to scrub the sting out of his taste buds. Giggling, Louis cuts into his cold omelette. He blows on the forkful when it’s up to his mouth anyway, chewing it thoroughly so he doesn’t choke like Harry had. 

“That’s what you get for making fun of me throwing up earlier,” he sasses. 

Eyes raising from his napkin, Harry narrows them on Louis teasingly. It takes him a few more wipes until he’s satisfied the flavor is gone and he dives right back into it. 

“Here you go,” Tabitha sets his extra eggs and bacon on the table. 

“Thanks,” he and Harry say at the same time. 

She grins secretively into her palm and leaves. As soon as he finishes the omelette, Harry stabs the eggs onto his fork and eats those, too. When he’s finished with that, he launches into an elaborate story about a time he’d been to a brunch and they’d served avocado toast. Louis fake-gags and Harry asks if he’s going to throw up again. Louis flips him off. 

Maybe, if they can find a way to be lonely together, they won’t really be lonely at all anymore. 

+

The doorbell rings the following Sunday evening, the sound ricocheting throughout the large rooms. Harry’s upstairs working on his writing, so Louis stands from his comfy spot on the sofa to see who it is without disturbing him. 

Things have been going so smoothly between him and Harry that part of him is angry that someone dared to interrupt their secluded bubble, but he’s too shocked someone even found the road to linger much on the feeling. 

When he peeks out the front window his heart skips once, twice. Parked in their driveway is an obnoxious, bright red Mustang. 

Taking a deep breath, he pulls open the door just enough to see the man on the other side. 

“Hi, can I help you with something?” Louis asks politely. 

Dressed in a dark green suit with a yellow tie, the man extends a bony hand for him to shake. Louis ignores it. 

“Good afternoon, I’m James Smith from the real estate office down on the corner. I was wondering if you had any interest in selling this house?” 

“Oh, no, we don’t. Have a good day.” 

He goes to shut the door again but the man - James - slaps a hand to the middle of it before he can latch it. The grey of his mustache and the squint of his beady eyes has nausea bubbling up in his stomach. 

_ Where is Harry, _ he thinks. Surely he must’ve heard the doorbell from the study. 

“May I speak with the owner of the home, please?” The man grits. 

Clenching his jaw, Louis’ own eyes narrow slightly. 

“There’s no need. I can guarantee he doesn’t want to get rid of it.” 

For a few seconds he just stares at Louis like he’s judging his character through his stance. Then, decidedly, he opens his mouth again. 

“With all due respect, Mr. Tomlinson, I don’t much care for your opinion. If you could fetch Harry for me, perhaps we could reach an agreement,” he snarks. “It seems to me that this house didn’t fall to you for a reason, I can see why Genevieve chose otherwise.” 

Louis’ too caught up in wondering how he knew his last name and who Genevieve was to feel Harry stomping his way up behind him. The loud echo of his footsteps makes him jump slightly, enough so that Harry has room to stand in front of him. 

“Good evening -” the man starts again. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry stops him, “what the hell are you still doing here?” 

“I, Mr. Styles, sir, I was only wondering if -”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve been told kindly to fuck off once already. Do you need me to repeat that for you?” 

This - this isn’t something Louis’ ever seen before. Harry’s voice is deeper than he’s ever heard it, his accent even more prominent as he breathes harshly through his nose. He hadn’t  _ needed _ Harry to come and save him, but he’s never really felt more relieved than in this moment. 

In the back of his mind he knows Harry was probably listening anyway, probably trying to let Louis handle it himself before he stepped in. Something stirs in Louis’ chest when he realizes that, if that really was the case, Harry simply couldn’t hold himself back anymore once he’d started insulting Louis. 

The man stands perfectly still on the front porch when Louis glances back at him, his mouth open as if appalled at their attitude. Harry scoffs openly. 

“ _ Mr. Tomlinson _ is just as much an owner of this home as I am and it would do you well to remember that,” he says lowly, “and if you had any sort of a chance before - which you  _ didn’t _ , by the way - you certainly do not now. You can tell your team or whoever the fuck you work for that we aren’t interested.” 

Harry slams the door shut in his face with a loud bang, echoing down the corridor. 

He’s still angry. Louis can see his clenched fists, the way his shoulders are vibrating as he stares hard at the wooden door. Still, when he looks behind him to meet Louis’ eyes, he seems worlds different - softer. 

“Louis,” Harry beckons gently. 

He isn’t sure which part did it for him, whether it was what he’d said or how he treated him or whatever, but hot tears spring to his eyes before he can choke them back down. 

Louis falls into his arms without much of a fight, seemingly boneless while he tries to hide his face in Harry’s shirt to muffle the quiet sobs. He doesn’t know why it hit him so hard. With just Harry here it’s easier to pretend they both own the house. When he’s reminded by someone outside of them, it stings like a fresh, open wound. Without the initial anger he’d been feeling, the sadness feels ten times more. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

Over and over again, lip trembling and voice raspy. Harry runs a careful hand over the back of his head, down his smooth neck and his back until he calms. 

He hopes Harry meant what he’d said. That Louis owns it as much as he does. All of his things are unpacked now, not like the boxes that had littered his old house. This feels like a home now, the longer he exists inside of it. 

It doesn’t erase any of the pain he’d gone through in the process but it does feel like closure of some sort - Harry acknowledging that they both have a say in the matter. Like maybe things were bad but they’ll be okay now. Or maybe he’s reading way too far into this and Harry thinks he’s crazy. 

As if sensing Louis’ thoughts, he leans down to press their foreheads together, uncaring of Louis’ blubbering. 

“I meant it,” Harry whispers, swaying them back and forth, “I meant every word.” 

Held tightly to his chest, Louis sobs harder at the admission. Later he’ll probably panic about having been so vulnerable in front of someone else. For now, he accepts it eagerly. 

Harry brings a big hand up to his cheek and wipes away the tears there but he doesn’t ever take it away. His thumb rubs slow, soothing circles on Louis’ cheekbone. 

Somewhere along the way Louis’d stopped crying. He stares into Harry’s eyes with his brows furrowed and a pout on his lips while they continue to tremble petulantly. And that’s - the thought of his own lips has him glancing down to Harry’s. 

It’s been so long since he’s felt someone’s lips on his own. Years, now. He’s so close to it, could just lean forward slightly and feel it all again. Feel  _ wanted _ again. 

He’s gone cross-eyed a bit from how close they are, but he keeps looking nonetheless. Harry’s right there, right in front of him. He’s warm and breathing and a person and for some reason all of this is just now settling inside of his brain. 

Maybe, on some levels, he  _ had _ been guilty of the things Harry accused him of in the past. Louis did picture him as ‘just a celebrity’ at first. He’d been unwilling to dig any deeper, just accepting him as someone who didn’t actually experience real emotion, too numb from the years of fame. Too arrogant from the amount of people who’d kill to get a few seconds of his time. 

Now that they’re alone, it doesn’t feel like that anymore. Louis’ hands clench in the fabric of his shirt. Harry’s breathing hot air onto his face, his eyes low to keep contact with Louis’, to see if he’s really okay. This is Harry  _ caring _ about him. This is Harry being human. 

He’s hit by the feeling all at once. Harry being human means, for the first time in months now, Louis isn’t  _ alone _ . 

Louis’ shorter than him by more than a few inches but Harry is leaned so far down into his space that he doesn’t even notice their height difference. He’s still rubbing the warm skin on Louis’ cheek just barely, lightly smoothing over the skin with the pad of his thumb. 

His breathing picks up again like he might start crying, but Louis knows there are no more tears coming. He can feel Harry’s hand spanning from his cheekbone to the bottom of his neck. He feels safe. 

“Louis,” Harry says again. 

It sounds distant in Louis’ ears. The only reason he’s sure that’s what Harry said is because he’d been still staring at his lips. 

His eyes flicker back up to Harry’s as he takes his own lip between his teeth. Tilting his head minutely to one side, Louis noses against his cheek gently. Eyelids fluttering halfway shut, his bottom lip just barely ghosts over Harry’s top one. 

They’re breathing the same air now, practically kissing without their lips touching. Harry’s mouth chases and then relents, trading off with Louis’. He’s dying to know what it would feel like. Just a little closer, he thinks. Louis lets his eyes fall shut fully, trusting Harry to hold him up as his body relaxes completely into the touch. Then - 

The doorbell rings again. 

Harry’s head whips away from his so quickly it gives Louis whiplash. His arms fall away, leaving Louis shivering in their absence. He stands there, arms crossed defensively over his stomach, while Harry stares wide-eyed at the ground next to him, silent. 

He seems so far away now. He isn’t, not really, but they’d been so close just seconds ago that Louis feels miles away from him now. Alone yet again. 

“Uhm,” Harry starts. 

The doorbell rings for a third time. 

“Pizza,” Louis breathes, snapping back into reality, “I ordered pizza about an hour ago, I couldn’t find anything in the fridge.” 

“Brilliant,” Harry spins to reopen the door and greets the worker, fumbling for the wallet in his back pocket. 

“Oh, I’ve got it,” Louis heads for the cash he set out earlier. “Here.” 

“No, no. It’s - I’ve got it already.” He turns back to the delivery person, “Keep the change.” 

It’s horribly awkward when he puts the boxes down on the counter. Louis sets about getting out plates and cups and tries not to bump into him while they’re both in the kitchen. It isn’t a small room by any means, but he feels like they’re each taking up way too much space in it tonight. 

“Here you go,” he murmurs, handing them to Harry. 

“Thanks,” he clips. 

From the corner of his eye, Louis sees him swallow thickly, the muscles near his throat shifting. He gets distracted by that, too, until Harry coughs to signal he’s done getting his plate. 

Dinner is stilted, ultimately. They don’t talk at the too-big table and Louis doesn’t try to ease the tension this time. He isn’t sure he would know what to say to do so. Even Bea stays asleep on the sofa the entire time instead of trotting over to see what they’re eating, as if sensing the shift in atmosphere. 

Usually they’ll watch television for a bit before heading up to their rooms. Tonight, Harry tells him he’s going to bed early. 

_ Knackered _ , he chuckles blankly. Louis watches him leave the room, hears him washing his plate off in the kitchen, stares down at his own barely touched plate as his footsteps fade completely and his door shuts upstairs. 

Leaving it on the table, Louis sticks the box of leftovers in the fridge for tomorrow. He’s not very hungry anymore. 

He settles into the spot on the couch he’d been sitting in earlier, now cold from being exposed to the air. Bea hisses at him when he shifts one too many times getting back underneath the blanket. 

Louis considers turning the television on for some background noise but figures he doesn’t need it. Despite everything swirling around in his brain, he tries to fall asleep. If he went up to his own bed he’d only be reminded of how much space he doesn’t take up inside of it. 

At least here, in his dreams, he can reimagine the ending. In his dreams, he can kiss Harry whenever he wants without having to worry so much about what wanting that means. 

+

“... she said, running around the side of the barn with the wind in her hair,” Louis reads theatrically to Bea. 

He’s got a book situated in his lap from Genevieve’s old collection, Bea’s black eyes intensely focused on him as she listens. 

“Do you always read to the cat?” Harry asks, appearing smugly in the doorway. 

They’ve not talked since the incident, so it scares Louis a bit more than it probably should. He jumps in the seat and pats a protective hand over Bea’s fur. 

“Yes,” he says defensively, “she likes to listen to the stories with strong female characters.” 

Harry snorts and moves further into the room, standing near the edge of the sofa opposite Louis. 

“Lou?” He asks a few minutes of silence later, “Can we talk?” 

Louis nods without looking up from his book. 

He’s been dreading this conversation for almost 72 hours now. He allows himself the delusion of thinking maybe Harry just wants to talk about something like the weather or what they’re having for dinner and not the fact that Louis so obviously wanted to kiss him. 

“The other night -” he bites his lip, sitting down hesitantly on the couch and looking down at his hands, “we were both upset and worked up from that guy wanting to buy the house and I wanted to comfort you, and -” he exhales. 

Harry winces several times as his face screws up almost painfully, glancing to the side as he tries to find the right words. He crosses one leg over the other and links his fingers together over his knee. 

When he glances up again Louis’ eyes quickly return to the words on the page, though he’s sure Harry could feel his gaze before. 

“It’s better if we don’t anyway,” Harry shakes his head finally, “if we just stay roommates and - and friends. If we just forget about it. It’s not a good idea.” 

“Forget about what?” Louis asks, eyes still trained on his book. 

Harry’s eyes narrow at him from across the room, head tilted like he isn’t sure if Louis’ serious or not. Louis gulps. 

“Seriously?” He says, exasperation clear in his tone, “Don’t do this, Louis, c’mon.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Harry. Nothing happened.” 

_ Please see through this _ , Louis thinks,  _ please don’t let me push you away _ . 

“You’re right,” Harry says after a few minutes, blinking slowly. “Nothing happened.” 

He flashes a tight smile and stands from the couch, headed towards his room. Louis’ heart sinks a bit more with every echoed footfall. 

_ Sorry _ , he wants to say. It’s just - he hadn’t been expecting it to hurt so much. Harry’s rejection, that is. 

Louis already knew that it wasn’t a good idea. Harry is famous and perfect and Louis is not. Harry has to go back to his life of travel and glamour soon and Louis will be here. None of it would have worked in the end. 

But the idea, the notion that he wasn’t so alone even if it wasn’t permanent, felt too good to resist. For just a few seconds he’d been able to imagine a world where something like that  _ could _ happen. Then, when Harry’d jerked back, away from him, he’d come crashing back down to reality. It was foolish of him to pretend someone like him would ever settle for someone like Louis. 

Pretending not to know what he’s talking about is just an immature defence mechanism. He’s not been in a serious relationship in his life, so he never developed the communication skills Harry apparently has. 

He’s never had to tell anyone what he wants because no one’s ever cared to know. 

Louis waits hours, until it’s dark outside the window, for Harry to come back downstairs. Even if it’s only to get food and not spare Louis a glance, it would be something. He’d be angry but he’d be  _ here _ . 

He stays up until the old clock in the hallway strikes midnight, the lone light from the kitchen illuminating the bottom of the stairwell. Harry never comes down. 

+

In an effort to lighten the mood again, Harry hasn’t left him alone for days. He forces them to cook meals together, puts a hand around his shoulders when they walk out to paint. Ultimately, he only ends up making things worse. 

Louis would never tell him that but it’s most likely becoming obvious. Every time he does something nice -  _ friendly _ , Louis goes all starry-eyed for him again. Anything he does now gets to him in some way or another. 

He’s beginning to think his anger was just a poorly-disguised defense mechanism because the more it fades, the more he realizes just how long he’s been thinking these things about him. 

A crush isn’t something he’s equipped to feel. Louis’ never had one before in his life. Twice he’s hooked up with people from the pub and that’s the extent of his romantic knowledge. Though he doesn’t much consider quick fucks in the back of a car and a bathroom stall all too endearing or even remotely romantic. 

Which, this is definitely not ending like  _ that _ , so he pushes the thought out of his head and locks it away for good. Harry wouldn’t want him like that anyway, he’s made it blatantly obvious by letting him down gently. Louis figures the least he can do is respect that. Or try, at least. 

Admittedly, it gets a bit harder to ignore his antics when he’s forced to be around them. When he doesn’t have any quick excuses prepared and Harry ropes him into whatever quirky activity he’s got planned to waste time. Like right now, for instance. 

“C’mon, Louis,” he laughs, “don’t think so much. Just let go for a little bit.” 

His words sound a bit like he’s trying to pressure Louis into doing something illegal, but he knows it’s just dancing. And he may have accepted the offer - if he had the slightest idea how to work his two left feet. 

“I don’t know how,” he says. 

“There’s no right way to dance,” Harry shrugs, “You just - move.” 

It does little to soothe his nerves. Harry seems so confident in everything he does, so much that it makes Louis envy him sometimes. He wishes he could be half that sure of himself, though he guesses years of people fawning over him would facilitate that sort of thing. 

To the side, Harry turns the knob on the speaker up until it’s loud, bass vibrating the counter he’s leaning against, before smirking at Louis. 

Then, slowly, he begins to move his hips. He’s got a goofy grin on his face like he knows he looks insane, but Louis tells him anyway. 

“You look insane,” he smiles around his poorly-hidden giggle. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry insists, “S’not the point.” 

His bare feet pitter-patter along the tile floor, turning in circles as he continues to move to the beat. At this point, Louis isn’t sure if he feels awkward because he’s being subjected to this or if it’s because he hasn’t joined in yet. 

“C’mon,” he says again, holding out a hand. 

Louis’ grinning so wide his cheeks hurt but he can’t recall when it first happened. Laughing when Harry does a mock tap-dance and holds his hand out further, he gives in. 

Instantly, he’s being spun around, once, twice, breathless with his laughter. 

“Harry,” he squeals when his feet leave the ground for a moment. 

He simply laughs at Louis’ stunned expression and twirls him again. Louis steps on his toes more times than he can count in the span of a minute but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. Over and over again, he does ridiculous dance moves that have Louis doubled over, shoulders shaking as he tries to breathe properly again. 

The song goes on for another couple of minutes before it transitions to something slower. Sobering slightly, Louis steps back, assuming they’d be finished without the upbeat tempo to guide them. 

Instead, Harry pulls him back in by his waist like a reflex and takes one of Louis’ hands in his, positioning them for a ballroom dance. Vaguely he registers the crooning voice in the background to be Sinatra, but he can’t be sure. 

Harry moves them gracefully throughout the kitchen and then into the dining room, surprising Louis with his knowledge of dance. After a minute or so, he falls into the routine as well, stepping when Harry does without crushing his toes. 

They end up in the hallway as the song picks up speed, sending Louis into another twirl before coming back even closer to Harry than he’d been before. Bea jumps down from the sofa to sniff inquisitively at their feet. She hisses when they continue to move, leaving them alone again. 

His own laugh harmonizes with Harry’s as they move subtly back toward the kitchen where they started. The song builds and builds, approaching the end the closer they get. 

Embarrassingly, for a fleeting moment Louis pictures Harry as the lead in the cheap romance novels he used to smuggle into his teenage bedroom growing up. All of the main characters that Louis fell madly in love with for the extent of their pages and poorly written dialogue and then forgot about when he was through reading. 

He’ll have to forget this, too, probably. 

His feet meet the cool tile again a few seconds later. Just as the last notes fade out of the speakers, Harry dips him low with a warm hand pressed to his lower back, preventing him from falling. 

Louis tenses at first, then relaxes when he realizes he won’t be dropped. And here they are again. 

Here is Louis breathing him in, close enough to let himself indulge but not allowing it. Louis’ twenty-seven years old with no prospects and no means to acquire any. He doesn’t think it’s all that far-fetched for him to pine so blatantly over the one who dared to get close enough. 

Then again, it doesn’t seem like that at all - vague, general. It feels like a  _ Harry _ thing which is infinitely worse in all ways possible. 

He’s suspended in mid-air the longer Harry holds him there, even as the next song switches on to another upbeat tune. His hands are clutching Harry’s broad shoulders from when he’d been afraid to fall. If Harry doesn’t want him, Louis really wishes he would stop doing things like this. 

Either way, Louis is far too weak to stop him. If this is all he can get, he’ll gladly take it until Harry distances himself again. 

Harry nudges his nose with his own, his eyes meeting Louis’ hooded ones. 

In slow motion, Louis feels himself being lifted again until they’re standing straight, his forehead level with Harry’s mouth. His big hands are still wrapped tightly around Louis’ thin arms. He keeps his eyes on the hem of Harry’s shirt while he breathes hot air onto Louis’ forehead. 

It’s intense in the worst way and Louis would hate every moment of it if he didn’t love it so much. Didn’t dream about it at night when he’s all alone in his king-sized bed. If he didn’t want it more than he’s ever wanted anything else. 

And then it’s gone again. Harry clears his throat and steps back, moving around him to turn the music back down. He stands at the speakers a bit too long, not that Louis was paying attention, before he spins on his heel to finish cooking. 

“See?” He says breathlessly, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” 

He’s trying to lighten the mood but Louis can only feel the thick rejection hanging heavy over his shoulders. For the first time in his life, he doesn’t know whether to thank Genevieve or be annoyed at what she left him. 

That’s another moment passed that he almost could have had everything. Louis gives himself little time to mourn. 

“Yeah,” he says, “It was perfect.” 

He’s just going to have to try and focus on the good. 

+

Louis hates swimming. 

Not necessarily  _ loathes _ it, but it’s more everything it constitutes that gets to him. The idea of getting half naked and vulnerable enough to potentially drown doesn’t sound remotely appealing, not when he’s got Harry Styles prancing around the house wanting to do exactly that. 

So when Harry doesn’t leave him alone about it, he moves out to sit on the lawn chairs with Bea and his book and hopes it’ll be enough. It isn’t, of course. 

Clad in only his boxers, Harry splashes him with water a short distance away each chance he gets, uncaring of his book getting wet. Eventually, Louis has to hide it behind the chair so it stays dry. He’s very excited for this one and if Harry ruins the pages he’s  _ not _ going to be happy with him. 

“Just for a little bit,” Harry reasons. “The water’s so nice.” 

He floats on his back for a second as if to prove that the water is, in fact, nice, before peeling one eye open to see if he managed to convince him. Louis crosses his arms and glares. 

Huffing to himself, Harry retreats after he doesn’t budge, returning to making slow laps back and forth over the length of the pool. Louis’ eyes follow the smooth outline of his back, the water parting for him as he rotates his arms through the shallow current. He swallows, the dark line of each of his tattoos sticking uselessly inside of his brain. 

Louis forces himself to stop before he’s caught, reclining in the chair as far as it will go and shutting his eyes in the sun. Bea had run off earlier, hissing at the sprays of water. If he can’t read and he can’t stare at Harry, sleep is all he’s good for these days. 

It does turn out to be nice for a bit. His skin feels dewy warm in the temperature outside, the soft sound of Harry wading through the pool in his ears. It feels so good that he doesn’t realize when the noise stops, halfway between sleep and awake. 

Yelping loudly at freezing cold hands on his back and underneath his legs, he clutches onto Harry desperately as he’s plucked off of his seat and carried in a rush toward the pool. Without pausing for a second, Harry tightens his arms around him and cannonballs back in with a splash that echoes in his ears. 

Everything goes silent. Submerged and still fully clothed, instead of fighting to get to the surface, Louis plasters himself to Harry’s front until he can breathe again. 

The first thing he hears is laughter. Loud and unabashed, Harry’s head is thrown backward, the column of his throat shifting as he grins. In slow motion, his eyes move down to catch Louis’. 

“You okay?” He asks. 

Louis wants to be angry. He’d explicitly said he did not want to get in the pool, but he supposes Harry had found a way around his self-consciousness without even meaning to. He’s still covered in his arms, his shirt and trousers thoroughly soaked through. They weigh him down, keeping him steady to his chest. 

So instead of yelling at him, Louis lets himself smile back, nodding timidly at him. Sometimes all he needs is a push. Or a cannonball. 

“Good,” Harry says. 

He makes no move to put him down yet and Louis doesn’t try to get away. Harry’s tall enough that he walks them through the length of the pool again, much slower than he’d been swimming. After seeing him inside of it, Bea trots curiously over to the edge and paws at the water off the side. She hisses and runs back to curl up where Louis’d been sitting earlier. 

It sends them laughing all over again. The sunlight feels even better with the cool undercurrent, the droplets making his skin slide as he shifts against Harry’s front. Louis shuts his eyes for a third time and lays his head on his shoulder, letting himself be carried back and forth. 

By the time he opens them again, it’s beginning to get dark out. He climbs out beside Harry, who gives him his towel to dry off first. He can still see the glint of Harry’s thin smile as they walk back into the house. 

This is what he’d meant before - this was  _ good _ . Even if Harry doesn’t want him, he had fun today. Exhausted from absolutely nothing, they eat dinner on the couch that night in front of the television. Louis falls asleep with his head in Harry’s lap, gentle fingers running through his hair, somewhere between finally being content and wanting everything he knows he can’t have. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in the playlist i listened to while writing for inspiration, you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/116fXxzCKtUGmOUEKQYWW8?si=RqQ8J9iVTmm1K-uU_8b6gQ). 
> 
> you can reblog this fic [here](https://soldouthaz.tumblr.com/post/611365688876105728/make-this-feel-like-home-43k-the-house-on-west) :)


	4. 4.0

_ Harry _

The house is almost completely painted. With the exception of the areas near the roof and some higher arches in the front, they’d done it all themselves, too. It’s taken six months. 

Even with all of the time passed, it feels like just yesterday he’d come back here. A part of him doesn’t want to finish it, because then he’d have an excuse to stay. 

Harry doesn’t allow himself to be deluded by the thought. His label has been calling every few days now to see what he’s got. They’re teasing an impending deadline over his head and he’s got no idea when it might sneak up on him. Most likely when he’s least prepared for it, he assumes. 

They head outside together like always, only two paint cans left sitting in the corner of the front porch with their brushes. Harry carries them to the back of the house where they left off last time while Louis gesticulates excitedly next to him, something about a throw blanket he wants to order for the house. 

Harry doesn’t point out that he probably won’t be here to see it. 

“I’m sure it’ll be lovely,” he says instead. 

He’s writing again now. There’s a steadily growing page count in his journal filled up with lyrics that feel more personal than anything else he’s ever put out. When his label calls he tells them he doesn’t have much to show them. 

Because that’s the problem - he  _ is _ writing, he just doesn’t want to share any of it. Wants to maybe stand Louis up in the living room and serenade him with the sonnets he’d written with solely him in mind, but he doesn’t do that either. The sappy poetry would scarcely fit in with his reckless, monogamy-hating image. 

Louis doesn’t know yet that he’s leaving. He’d known Harry would be here an indefinite amount of time, yes, but they’d gotten a bit lost in their own heads to think about outside obligations as of late. Harry had, at least. 

It makes his head (and heart) ache to think of leaving him all alone in the big house. When Harry asked him if he was lonely a month or two ago now, he’d made a silent promise after Louis’ quiet  _ yes _ to try and change that. 

He thinks he has, to be fair. Louis is a completely different person than when they’d first met. His secretly bright personality fills up every room of the house even when Harry is less than optimistic. Louis’ brighter and happier and sometimes, late at night after dinner and an obligatory bad movie, he snuggles up to Harry’s side and falls asleep until he’s carried up to his bedroom. 

All of it is domestic in a way Harry’s never gotten the chance to experience before and it drives him insane in the best ways. Makes him want to pull his hair out when Louis smiles at him, punch a wall when he kisses his cheek all friendly-like. 

As far as the friend-thing goes, Harry knows he can’t be too angry. While Louis has his own issues with intimacy, Harry was the one to approach him first to say that they couldn’t let anything happen. He hates himself a little more for it with each passing day. 

“I can’t believe we’re almost done,” Louis breathes, all ethereal and glowing in the morning sun. 

Harry takes a careful sip of his tea to hide the half-grin, half-grimace. He lets himself stare until Louis notices. 

“What?” He asks quietly. 

“Nothing,” Harry shakes his head, smiling, “S’nothing, Lou.” 

They uncap the last new paint cans and set to work. If they stay focused, Harry bets they’ll have it finished by mid afternoon. He strokes the brush unhurriedly across the wood in a familiar pattern. 

He tells himself he can’t have Louis because he’ll be leaving soon, because they would never work anyway and Louis deserves someone who can make it work for him. But - Harry really,  _ really _ wishes he could. 

+

Harry’s room is right next to Louis’. He’d known this already, logically, but he hadn’t really  _ understood _ until now. Despite the thick walls, the ones between their rooms seem to allow just enough sound to filter through that he can’t block it out. 

Louis is supposed to be sick. They’d been eating dinner earlier when Harry picked up their plates to take to the kitchen. 

“I’ve got it,” Louis’d said. 

He’d fought with him about who would wash the dishes for a few minutes before relenting when Louis blocked the sink with his body, a stubborn frown on his face. Realistically, he could’ve picked him right up and moved him out of the way but he’s glad now that he didn’t. 

Celebrating with a triumphant grin, Louis took the dishes from his hands and set about cleaning them under the soapy water while Harry put the leftovers away in the fridge. The original plan was to watch a movie after they ate but they’d gotten sidetracked - again. 

The sink had made an awful noise when Louis tried to flip on the disposal, gurgling loudly around something that must’ve fallen down the drain. Similar to the beginnings of some of the sleazy porn he’d watched in his teens, Louis’ hand got stuck trying to clean it out. 

With his body stuck there, he fought to pull his small wrist from the bottom of the sink with little result. He’d turned to Harry with a worried gasp, whimpering slightly when it pulled on his skin. 

Harry’d shushed him and moved to stand directly behind, leaning forward to see if he could pick out where it was stuck. His first concern had been Louis’ safety - there are blades in there that could seriously cut up his hand if he’s not careful. 

The entire basin was already full of thick, soapy water that blocked them from being able to pinpoint where he was stuck. Carefully moving the plates out of the way, Harry used their cups to dump handfuls of it into the other side until Louis’ wrist was visible. 

“It’s okay,” he’d said when Louis whimpered again. 

Once he’d been sure there was no damage and Louis wasn’t hurt, only scared, Harry’s second concern had arisen. 

Fingers trailing down the soft, wet skin of Louis’ arm, he’d used warm water to gently maneuver it out, taking a bit longer than necessary. Pressed intimately between him and the counter, Louis’ breathing picks up as he shifts his weight from foot to foot anxiously. Which would be okay, just - his  _ hips _ had been moving too. 

“Louis,” he warns him lowly, fingers still wrapped completely around his smaller ones in the sink and body completely pressed to his back. 

He whimpers a final time as Harry pulls his hand free, sighing gratefully, but it’s too late. When he turns and glances down, Harry’s hard in his trousers. 

“Oh,” he breathes. 

“Uhm, there you go,” Harry stammers, “good as new.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” 

Harry had considered apologizing but Louis left before he had the chance. Coughed once into the same hand, claimed he wasn't feeling well and escaped to his room. 

Which is where Harry can hear him now from his own room. He’d come up here to take a cold shower but something else sparked his interest. Earlier he’d been afraid he scared Louis with how accidentally forward he was with his blatant attraction. He isn’t nervous about that anymore. 

Just barely, he can make out the quiet pants from his room next door. The softest moans he’s ever heard, the slight creak of the bed every few minutes. There’s no mistaking it - Louis is touching himself. 

It shouldn’t make Harry harder, the thought of Louis getting off because of something  _ he _ may have caused, but it does. It very much does. 

Harry stares down at his cock through his pants while he sits on the edge of the bed. He hasn’t gotten himself off properly since being here, too busy and emotionally unavailable to consider anything of the sort. He’d been planning to stand underneath the cool stream of the shower until it went away to avoid the guilt he’s sure to feel later on but, if Louis’ doing it, it can’t be an  _ awful _ idea. 

He can’t even really remember the last time he did this alone. He’s been known to get touchy when he’s drunk even if the only company is his own hand, but other than that it’s been an endless line of men and women dying to spend one night with him. Or a few hours, rather. He’s never been one to stick around until morning unnecessarily. 

It’s why he hisses when he finally gets a hand around himself through his boxers, sighing contentedly at the foreign feeling. Louis’ bed is right against the wall unlike Harry’s, so he makes himself stand up and walk over to it, pressing his forehead against the old wallpaper. 

His cock stands parallel to his body, straining upward and leaking from the tip, already fully hard from what’d happened downstairs. Harry keeps his gaze on his slow-moving hand as he listens to the muted, filtered noise. 

Every few seconds the headboard hits back against where Harry’s leaning unexpectedly and he jerks against the harsh noise. If Louis doesn’t register that happening, Harry wonders how far gone he is already. 

He’s only been in there about five minutes so far but Harry guesses he must be close. Eyes drifting shut, he lets his mind wander to the same thing Louis’ probably imagining. 

Down in the kitchen, if he’d been a weaker man, he would’ve taken Louis there. After his hand was out Harry would’ve littered his pretty neck with lovebites until he was moaning. Then he would’ve turned him around, maybe gotten his mouth on him for a bit. 

Harry would cradle his face in his hands and kiss the back of the wrist that’d been stuck before kissing him properly, a mess of heat and tongues and intimacy he’s been searching for in one night stands and quickies after concerts but never really achieved. Louis would be better than all of them, he’s already sure. 

He would've undressed him slowly and taken him against the counter, fucking him until his legs gave out and he’d have to rely on Harry to keep him from falling. His mind flashes back to every  _ almost _ \- the first time when they’d been interrupted by pizza, the lingering happiness from their dance party in the kitchen, and then tonight. 

Lastly, Harry would make him come. He would stare into his eyes as he pushed him over the edge, hold him tightly as his body shakes and his little hands grip hard into his skin. He’d lose his breath watching his eyes roll back in his head, his mouth dropping open but not making a sound. 

On the other side of the wall Louis moans outright, a small, frantic sound. Harry’s own hand flies over his cock at a punishing pace. 

He can picture everything he’s just described so vividly that it ends up burned into the backs of his eyelids when he comes into his own palm, shoulders hunching over with the force and surprise of his release. 

“Oh,” he moans quietly. 

Bringing his clean hand up beside him, he puts a hand on the wall just as Louis groans loudly and then everything goes silent. Harry slides to the ground sideways with his fingertips still touching the chipping paper. Lazily, he strokes it like he would Louis’ overheated face. 

Afterwards, Harry would make sure he was well taken care of. He’d feed him loving words right after fucking all of them out of him, pull a hand through his hair and hold him close until he felt secure in his own skin again. 

He’s never felt this way before. In his previous couplings, he’d been eager to get on with it and then eager to get out immediately afterwards. If he ever got the chance, he thinks, he’d like to take his time with Louis. 

The fantasy is lovely, but Harry’s almost certain he won’t ever get to experience it. He settles for his imagination. Closing his eyes, he pictures crawling into a shared bed, wrapping him up tightly in his arms, and falling asleep to the sound of Louis’ breathing instead of his own, crumpled against the wall on the hardwood with cooling cum drying into his clothes. 

+

“I’ve got it,” Harry insists, “I have material, I just need to make some minor changes before -” 

“You’re running out of time to make those changes, mate. They want to see at least three new outlines by the end of next month. Which means you need to be here for that, by the way.” 

His manager is nearly as infuriating as the rest of them. Because they’ve known each other longer he feels perfectly comfortable giving Harry his full opinion even when he purposely does  _ not _ ask for it. 

“You haven’t let me forget,” he sighs frustratedly, tugging on his hair. 

“I’m glad going out there got you writing again but don’t you miss the scene? A few months back I couldn’t drag you away from tour if I  _ tried _ . You used to love going out every night -”

“Got it,” Harry snaps. “Look, I’ll be back by the end of next month but that’s all I can guarantee. I don’t know when yet but I’ll let you know. Just - just let me have this month, yeah?” 

He stares out the window in the study blankly while he waits for a response. It’s rare for them to allow him anything anymore. Something about being here makes him want to fight for it. Mindlessly following their orders after being teased with the alluring promise of booze feels a bit old now. 

“Yeah,” his manager gives in. “You can have this month, man. I’m calling you as soon as it’s over, alright?” 

“Right. I’ll talk to you later.” 

Harry hangs up before he can respond. Resting his head in his hands momentarily, he misses the soft footsteps padding into the room. The heavy doors creak open slowly as Louis slips in. 

“You’re leaving?” 

Spinning around abruptly, Harry sucks in a breath. 

“Uhm, yeah. I am.” 

He wants to say more, explain and make excuses until his jaw aches, but nothing else comes out. Harry stares at Louis’ socked feet. He’s wearing light grey ones with cats on them, a gift from Harry the last time they went to town. 

“Were you going to tell me?” He asks. 

Gulping, Harry nods. “I was, I promise. I just didn’t want to ruin the, uhm, atmosphere,” his voice raises questioningly toward the end, “things were going so well,” Harry shrugs helplessly. 

“Roommates usually tell each other when they’re moving out,” is all Louis responds with. 

Chewing on his lip, Harry tries to think of something to say to appease him. There is no easy way out this time, unfortunately. He can’t deny what Louis heard. And he’s right, that’s exactly what they are. From his tone, that’s  _ all _ they are - roommates. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, because that’s all he’s capable of saying, apparently. “I should’ve told you sooner.” 

He means to say  _ I wish I didn’t have to leave _ . He hopes Louis can read between the lines. This is not a good feeling, he decides. It’s been months since they’ve been this cold to each other and he’s aching to reach out and touch Louis again, to assure him he wouldn’t be leaving if he didn’t have to. 

Harry keeps his hands to himself. Louis nods once, then turns to leave the room. The cartoon cat faces on his socks distort as he walks. Harry watches them until they disappear around the corner, out of sight. 

Dinner that night is tense. They cook something together with what they can find in the fridge, eating silently at the large table. Several times Harry tries to make conversation and several times Louis gives him one-word responses, shut off as he shoves food into his mouth and then rushes back to the sink to clean his plate. Harry tells him goodnight and heads to bed without cuddling on the sofa. 

It isn’t until the next day that Louis comes back into the study, huffing with his arms crossed. Glancing up at him hesitantly, Harry clears his throat to fill the silence. 

“I’m not angry with you,” Louis tells him, “I just got offended.” 

“Okay,” Harry says dumbly. 

He takes a shuddering breath and rounds the side of the desk to motion for Harry to scoot his chair out. Within seconds he’s got a lapful of the smaller man. He hopes Louis can’t feel how hard his heart is pounding against his chest when he goes to hug him back. 

“I know I get defensive, but I’m trying to work on it. So, I’m sorry.” 

“That’s okay,” he attempts to soothe his anxious tone, running a hand down his back. 

“We should make the best of it,” he whispers into Harry’s neck. “The next month, I mean.” 

“Okay,” Harry says for a third time. 

There’s nothing else he can say, really. He has to agree with Louis even though he wonders how he could possibly be happy knowing he’s got a deadline fastly approaching. He squeezes Louis extra tight in an effort to distract himself. 

“Okay,” Louis says. 

For now, at least, he’ll try to act like it is. 

+

Harry plans it out meticulously. In an empty page in his journal he outlines everything they can do to fill up the time in between, things he thinks Louis will enjoy. 

There are all sorts of things listed in the coming weeks like a night out in the city, renting out the small movie theater for them to watch awful films on an actual screen simply because he can, and even taking a cooking class together at the town hall (mostly for Louis’ benefit). 

Despite how much he likes those ideas, Harry’s most excited for today. He’d gotten up early this morning to run the lawn mower over the backyard again, making sure the grass is fluffy and but not sparse. There’s a shelf of food in the fridge he’d picked up a few hours ago for them to eat at the grocery store in town. Grabbing a sheet from the linen closet downstairs, Harry grins to himself as he heads outside to lay it all out. Louis’ been asleep for a bit now on the sofa, giving him just enough time to perfect everything. 

In the back of his mind, Harry knows he probably shouldn’t be doing this. Of all of the things on his list, this one is the one that pushes the boundary between friends and something else, something  _ more _ . But he also thinks that might be why he likes it so much. 

He can confidently say it’s the most work he’s put into a gift for someone in years. Instead of feeling embarrassed at the fact, he adjusts the food one last time and then goes back inside to wake Louis. 

“Lou-eeee,” he hums dramatically, poking his head into the living room. 

Louis groans once and buries his head further into the throw pillow. 

“Wake up, Lou. C’mon,” Harry nudges his shoulder. 

“What could you possibly want,” he drones. 

“That doesn’t sound like making the most of the month. C’mon, up you get.” 

Harry tugs the blanket off of him with one pull and tries not to coo at his small body curled up underneath. Pinching his eyes shut, Louis stretches his limbs out completely over the couch and yawns. 

“Fine,” he sighs. 

“That’s the spirit!” 

As soon as he’s got a leg over the side of the couch, Harry tugs him upwards and pulls him along toward the backdoor. 

“Woah, okay,” Louis mutters, grabbing onto Harry’s sleeve. 

“Oh, wait,” Harry stops suddenly, Louis running face-first into his chest with a soft  _ oof _ , “I forgot something.” 

He jogs back to the previous room, grabbing the book open on the side table as well as Bea off of the end of the chair. She hisses at him menacingly but offers no real threat, falling limp in his arms after a few seconds. 

When he gets back around the corner Louis glances at him curiously. 

“What are you going to do to our cat?” 

Harry stops mid-step.  _ Their _ cat? 

A slow grin spreads across his face until his cheeks burn. He clears his throat and looks down to distract from it, moving again toward the door. 

“Don’t you worry. Our cat will be just fine,” he bops Louis’ nose with his finger as he passes. 

The picnic blanket is hidden behind some of the taller shrubs in the very back, a spot where Harry used to be exceedingly familiar with. 

“Is this - did you make us a picnic?” Louis asks, voice high when they approach it from the side. 

Setting Bea down gently on one corner of the spread open sheet, Harry uses the free hand to scratch the back of his neck. 

“Yeah. Is that okay? With you?” 

Laughing giddily, Louis plops down directly in the middle and grabs the open carton of grapes from the assortment. He pops one into his mouth and smiles, patting the open space beside him. 

“This is great,” he beams, “I’ve always wanted to have a picnic.” 

Harry sighs as the worry melts off of him. Setting the book off to the side for now, he lets himself dig into the cheese platter he hasn’t been able to get off his mind all morning. 

“Oh, man,” Louis gasps, “sparkling cider? You really went all out.” 

For a second Harry’s nervous he’s been caught. Louis’ somehow seen through his friendship excuse and knows he just wanted to have one honest experience with someone he likes to be able to look back on in the future when he’s lonely again and trying to escape the inevitable numbness of his own company. 

Then he rips open the cap and downs a quarter of the bottle straight from the neck, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Harry calms again. Louis just really must like sparkling cider. 

Bea stretches out until she’s resting on her side, the sunlight hitting her small head as she bathes in it contentedly. Harry reaches a careful hand out to pet her coat. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this far out here before,” Louis tells him, popping another green grape into his mouth. 

“Really? I used to come out here all the time.” 

“Big nature guy, were you?” Louis jests. 

“Good one,” he smiles, “but no. I used to come out here to write. Everything was quiet and it was easier for me to hear my thoughts out here so I could get them down on paper.” 

Squinting, Louis swallows his food and turns to lay on his side, facing Harry with his chin resting in his hand interestedly. 

“That’s so cool. How do you like, get your inspiration? Like what makes you think ‘ _ I have to write about this’ _ .” 

Harry ponders for a moment, frowning with a hand stroking Bea’s fur. He’s going to have to choose his words carefully here. He can’t just say  _ you _ . 

“I don’t think it’s something that’s set in stone,” he concludes, “like, every song I’ve put out has gone through a different process than the one before it. Mostly it just depends on where I am, if I’m doing something or around someone that makes me  _ feel _ something.” 

Beside him, Louis’ face is still unreadable. Harry swallows nervously. 

“Does that make sense?” 

“Yeah, I think so. It makes sense that you would want to write about things that make you feel. That’s probably why your songs are so relatable. For me, at least, anyway.” 

It’s the first halfway-compliment Louis’ ever given to him. At once he’s reminded simultaneously of both his want to stay here and the impending return to his old life.  _ Old _ , Harry scoffs at himself in his head. He’s barely been here six months. 

“Thank you, I think,” Harry chuckles, trying hard to ignore the blush rising in Louis’ cheeks for both their benefits. 

“Yeah,” he offers. 

He picks up another grape and signals for Harry to sit back. With a steady hand, he aims and shoots right for Harry’s mouth. Louis misses the first ten shots, but Harry cheers for him until he lands one right on his tongue. 

“Hey,” he says. 

Harry hums in response, eyes on his food while he waits for Louis to speak. 

“I think there is something else I want to know.” 

“Okay,” Harry concedes, turning to face him more. “What is it?” 

Louis stares down at the patterned sheet as he gathers his thoughts. He bites his lip and releases it again before coughing lightly. 

“I know why you came here, both times,” he pauses, “but - why did you leave?” 

Instead of seeming angry, Louis looks genuinely curious. It’s the only reason Harry answers him so easily. 

“I loved Genevieve more than anyone else in my life, but growing up with parents like mine leaves you with some things that don’t just heal overnight. She was still the only family member I trusted, the only one I told I loved her, but inside of my brain she was still just as capable of hurting me as everyone else was.” 

Taking a moment to breathe and let that sink in, he exhales. 

“In my head,” Harry repeats, “I was protecting myself. Not in the right way, but that was always the intention behind it. It was never to hurt her or leave her behind. I sent her money every few months once I started doing well.” 

He catches Louis’ confused frown to the side and wonders if he never knew that. Where did Louis think she got all of the money from? Genevieve worked hard for most of her life and saved, but there’s no way she’d have been able to keep the house without his contributions. 

“I had no idea,” Louis says breathily, eyebrows raised as he thinks. 

Harry hopes he got the answer he wanted. He doesn’t expect his next words, however, raw and too close to home, setting uncomfortably in his ear drums. 

“I understand.” 

Louis’ tone suggests something more, something like he understands because he knows the feeling. Before Harry can ask him, he laughs lightly and readjusts his head on his open palm. 

“Is there anything else you wanted to know?” He mocks their words from the cafe before teasingly. 

Harry decides he won’t push it today. He has thousands of questions he could ask simply so he could hear Louis talk. But he hadn’t wanted to set this kind of mood with their picnic. It’s decidedly not very optimistic for the future. 

So he laughs instead, throwing his head back even though it hadn’t really been very funny. It makes Louis giggle even harder, curling in on himself with his startling happiness. 

When the laughter dies down, Louis nudges the forgotten book with his foot. 

“Were you planning on reading?” He asks. 

“Actually,” Harry hesitates, “I was thinking maybe you could read? I know you do it for Bea sometimes,” he trails off. 

Louis’ lips curl upwards gradually as he sits up on his knees, grabbing the book and moving to sit against a tree trunk close by. 

“C’mon,” he gestures. 

Bea trots over to them excitedly as soon as she hears Louis’ voice, just as Harry sits down on the other side of him. 

“You can lay down if you want,” he suggests, “get comfortable. I’m only on chapter four so I don’t know how long you’re planning to stay out here.” 

Laughing breathily, Harry scoots his body down and leans on his elbows, glancing up questioningly. Louis pats his lap without looking up from the page. 

With his ankles crossed and Bea on his right, Harry lays his head in Louis’ lap and lays to the left, shifting until he’s comfortable. Louis stays silent until he stills completely. 

“On the evening of the ball,” he begins quietly, already picking up where he’d left off. 

Harry has no idea what he’s reading. He’d grabbed the book on impulse, hoping they might end up something like this. Closing his eyes, he’s content to just doze from the sound of his soft, scratchy voice over the silence. 

Then, a small hand drifts close to his head, Louis’ pinky moving just slightly in his hair. Harry sighs and pushes up into it encouragingly. 

A few paragraphs later, halfway into an intense scene about the main character turning down a potential suitor, his entire hand is caught in Harry’s curls, scratching absentmindedly as he reads. 

“As she returns to the safety of her room for the night, she sighs a great deal of relief. For once, she wished someone would fight for her,” Louis continues, volume fading as Harry’s eyes flutter shut, “Maybe then she would finally be able to let someone in and allow herself the unfamiliar pleasure of being wanted, of being loved in a way she never had before.” 

Harry wakes up hours later in the dark to Louis’ head on his chest, Bea resting happily between their feet. Instead of packing up and heading inside for the night, Harry grabs the sheet to tug over them and presses a barely-there kiss to Louis’ temple, pulls him closer, and falls asleep a second time underneath the trees. 

+

Genevieve’s grave is only a short drive away but neither of them have been back since the funeral. This morning it’d just felt like the right thing to do. When he brought it up to Louis over breakfast, they’d both been dressed and ready to leave in minutes. 

Above them, the sky grumbles with quiet thunder, grey in a way Harry’s never seen it before. Instead of the clear blue and white, fluffy clouds, it seems angry as it weeps over them. He thinks it must know he’s leaving in the morning. 

Neither he or Louis have anything to give to her, though he’d considered bringing flowers. She’d always run with the motto ‘come as you are’, so Harry figured it’d be best to just be there himself without any showy gifts. 

“Do you want to go separately, or… ?” Harry asks, pulling onto the gravel lot. 

It’s only lightly raining for now but he grabs the umbrella to offer Louis anyway, holding it out in his hand. 

“No, we can just go together,” Louis says, “unless you want to go alone,” he rushes to add. 

“I think it’d be best if we weren’t alone right now.” 

With that, they step out of either side of Harry’s car while he opens the umbrella, rushing over to the other side before Louis can get too damp. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs. 

Harry holds it up in between them as they walk down the narrow path toward her grave. He’d offered for Louis to speak to her privately because he isn’t quite sure he deserves to yet, himself. No one else is here, but he’s glad they decided to go together. He’s not sure he would’ve been able to do this alone. 

Cobblestone crunches beneath their feet, the rain pelting down a bit harder the further they get down the trail. Eventually, as the soles of Harry’s shoes become fully drenched, they make it. 

Louis stops before he does. He freezes abruptly in front of the headstone and Harry has to take a step back to keep him covered. For a few long minutes, he stares and says nothing, his face unreadable. 

“I - I don’t know what to say,” Louis’ voice is loud when he begins speaking, but fades out quickly as it trembles, unsure of himself. 

“That’s okay,” Harry soothes, “Genevieve loved you. You don’t even have to say anything at all. She knows you’re here.” 

Beside him, Louis sniffs once and shuffles closer, the rain beating down on the top of the umbrella. Harry tightens his hold on it so it doesn’t fly away. 

“Do you?” Louis asks, “Have anything you want to say, I mean?” 

_ No _ is the first thought that pops into his brain but he thinks about it for a moment, trying not to be automatically defensive. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes trained on her engraved name on the stone. Harry pouts, then adds, “Thank you for filling out your will incorrectly.” 

Louis’ harsh laugh startles him, loosening his grip. The umbrella flies to the side when he’s distracted and Harry dives toward Louis to catch it. 

Instead of pushing away like he’d thought he would, Louis shifts so their sides are touching completely, laying his head on Harry’s shoulder with the soft smile still lingering on his lips despite the tears and stormy weather. 

“You think she’s listening to us right now?” He asks softly. 

“She’s probably yelling at us to get back in the car before we get a cold,” Harry chuckles wetly. 

Louis laughs beside him, burrowing further into his side. This time, Harry doesn’t think it’s to get away from the rain. He moves the umbrella to his other hand and puts an arm around the back of his smaller shoulders, swaying them together subtly. 

“I miss her,” Louis whispers. 

“I know,” he sighs, “me, too.” 

He tries to keep the rasp from his tone but fails miserably, Louis’ eyes snapping up to his just as Harry’s fill with tears of his own. He’d told himself he would be strong for her, for Louis, but he can’t shake the feeling in his stomach. 

The one telling him he shouldn’t be here. Just like Louis’d said when they first met, he’d been here for her and Harry hadn’t. 

“Harry,” he starts. 

“Don’t, it’s - I’m okay. Just emotional.” 

Squeezing his eyes closed and clearing his throat, Harry nearly drops their cover altogether when Louis moves to stand directly in front of him and wrap his arms tightly around Harry’s middle. 

He’s choking on air within seconds, sobs ripping out of his rolled lips. The entire time he’s been here he hasn’t had to consider the past - Genevieve. He’s been able to avoid that part of his life expertly. Now it’s all right in front of him. Her grave seems to glare at him but he knows it's all in his head. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he’s saying into Louis’ hair, clutching his arm tightly. 

“She never hated you, Harry. I promise. She was so proud of you.” Louis murmurs, stroking his back. 

He shakes his head at Louis, unwilling to take any sort of compliment. 

“But I - I took advantage, I - she deserved so much better, someone like you, and she got,” he hiccups, “she got  _ me _ .” 

Harry sobs loudly again, his bottom lip trembling terribly in the cold. They’ve both got coats on but Harry feels icy inside, in his veins, where he can’t get away from it. He snuggles closer to Louis’ warm body even as freezing rain comes down on his back, losing his grip on the handle. 

Louis pulls back barely, enough to take Harry’s face in his hands despite the awkward angle. 

“When you came here, I couldn’t stand you,” he starts shakily. Harry strains to hear him over the rain, “I thought you were arrogant and rude and I didn’t want you anywhere near Genevieve’s home. From the moment we met I never thought we would get along.”

He gulps and wipes wetness from Harry’s cheek, smiling coyly at him as he mirrors Harry’s upset. 

“I thought my life was over. I thought everything I’d built here was for nothing and I was going to have to start all over again from scratch. Alone.” 

“Oh, God, Louis,” Harry hiccups again, “I’m so, so sorry.” 

“Hush,” he placates, warm hands still on his face, “I didn’t want to like you. But every time you offered to help me with something and I turned you down or hurt your feelings I couldn’t help but hope you would see through me. See that I needed help - needed someone.” 

He’s too distracted by Louis’ words that he calms a bit, entranced even though he started out by mentioning he hated him. Hopefully, Harry thinks, this time there will be a happy ending. A redeeming lesson he can file away for lonely nights when he’s back on the road. 

“I’ve never been good at being alone. But I also have absolutely no idea how to let someone in,” Louis chokes out a laugh, “I’m trying to say I - I’m really happy the house went to you, Harry. If you hadn’t been here, I don’t know if I would’ve - if I would’ve -” he cuts himself off. 

Harry cradles him to his chest as he begins to cry. Both of them are a mess, taking turns being vulnerable while it seems appropriate. 

“I’m glad it was you,” he repeats, softer than before, chin up so he can see Harry properly. 

His lips are slick when Harry leans down to press them to his own, from the rain and his tears. The umbrella shifts before it falls completely away with the wind. He’s holding Louis so close that he can feel his heartbeat in his throat, presses his thumb against the pulse as a reminder.  _ Here _ . 

This feels much more like the storyline Harry’d been dreaming about before. His clothes are soaked through, his socks squelching in his boots. Driving home is sure to be a nightmare. He doesn’t even know why he’s kissing Louis right now or what’s going to happen when they get back home. 

Despite all of this, he feels more alive than he has in ages. Each time he tries to sit down and write and nothing comes out, it’s because nothing like this ever happens to him. He’s beginning to understand why cliches are so popular - kissing in the rain feels unbelievably liberating. 

Kissing  _ Louis _ feels liberating on it’s own. Harry grips his jaw and seals their mouths together desperately, over and over again until he can’t breathe. He’s not sure if he’ll ever get to feel this again. 

Harry pulls away with a pop, their skin sliding against each other while they catch their breath. 

“Home?” Louis asks. 

“Home.” Harry agrees. 

Genevieve has seen enough, he figures, not sparing a glance at the lost umbrella somewhere behind them as he grabs Louis’ hand to make a run back to the car. He doesn’t let go once they’re in, not even once they’re back to the driveway on West 28th. 

The sun is just beginning to peak out from behind the storm clouds when they get back, a thin rainbow stretching from the graveyard to their front door. 

+

A few hours later, the needy feeling still hasn’t faded for either of them. 

They haven’t spoken since getting back but it isn’t uncomfortable. Harry squeezes Louis’ smaller frame where he’s huddled close into his side. His hair is soft where it tickles Harry’s chin. Bea snores happily next to their feet. 

“That was a good idea to go today,” Louis mentions later, halfway through a sitcom rerun on the telly, stifling a yawn. 

He’s been weepy most of the day, clinging to Harry’s side with little fear of judgement. Harry wonders if he’s picturing waking up to an empty house after tomorrow. 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees. “For some reason I felt like it would be.” 

It’s just another thing on his list he’d wanted to get done before he leaves. 

For a short time, Louis seems content to just sit with him. He’s still and quiet in Harry’s lap save for little twitches of his leg ever so often. It’s nice, domestic, and reminds Harry of a life he used to dream of having. He pictures coming home to this every night, to countless takeout boxes and Bea and a comfortable, snuggly Louis. Harry’s going to miss this, even if it’s something he’s had only a few times before. 

Nothing disrupts the atmosphere for a while as the muted colors pass over the screen and the laugh tracks echo inside of their heads. Eventually, Louis glances up at him. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” 

“Louis,” he says pleadingly, warningly. 

“No, I know that we can’t and I - I won’t push you but, for the record, I think we could’ve been enough. I think we could have made it.” 

His words are small and light when they’re whispered in the space between them, but Harry feels them in his bones.  _ Here, enough _ , echoes in his head. 

He shifts enough that he can look him in the face, a hand on his cheek. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps honestly. 

It is honesty - Harry may not even forgive  _ himself _ for withholding this. Still, it wouldn’t be a good idea. With everyone in LA breathing down his neck for new material, he doesn’t have much of an option anymore. Louis deserves more than late night phone calls and a life of secrecy. He deserves the world. It’s something Harry knows he can’t give. 

“I know we can’t have forever,” Louis rephrases, “but, maybe, d’you think, we could have tonight?” 

Harry feels the air being punched out of his lungs with each syllable. His resolve feels significantly weaker, but he hesitates. 

“I don’t know, Lou. I want to, but -” 

Solemnly, Louis nods. “I get it,” he says. 

He goes back to burying his head in Harry’s chest and staring blankly at the television screen. Harry knows he isn’t angry, just mourning the unfortunate honesty of the situation. 

Just as Harry begins to think he’s fallen asleep, he wiggles around and pushes himself out of his lap, walking towards the stairs. Harry hears his bedroom door open and then nothing. 

With his lap cold and his cheek stinging in the spot where Louis’ warm skin used to be, he bites his lip. Louis deserves more than just one night. Harry  _ wants _ more than just one night. But that’s all they’ve got and - 

And he would hate himself if he didn’t take it. 

“Louis,” he breathes, standing from the sofa just as Louis gets back down to the bottom step. 

He stops, staring at Harry with wide eyes and raised brows. “Yes?” 

“Don’t leave. I know I said that we couldn’t, but I…” Harry trails off staring at his own tee shirt hanging off of Louis’ petite shoulders. 

“I wasn’t leaving,” Louis smiles slightly, “I just wanted to change. My other shirt was too hot.” 

Stepping closer, he puts a hand on Harry’s arm and Harry’s eyes snap down to it like he’d been burned. Louis follows his gaze. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

Harry shakes his head but doesn’t elaborate. He tugs Louis in close and breathes him in again, nuzzling the hair on the top of his head. Never has he known himself to be this needy for someone. He finds he doesn’t really mind. Swallowing thickly, Harry opens his mouth. 

“Please, even if it’s just tonight, I -” 

Louis’ lips are just as warm as he remembers when they land on his again, his words fading in the back of his throat. He grabs his cheeks with both of his hands and squeezes. 

“I want that,” Louis whispers, nodding frantically like he’d been waiting for him to change his mind, “please, want that.” 

With his permission, Harry launches into careful action. He grabs Louis’ hands and leads him to the bedroom slowly, back in the direction he came from a few seconds ago. His socked feet are light on the wooden floor, softly padding while Harry’s boots thump. 

They pass through the living room on the way out. And the pictures hanging on the wall of the stairwell. And the study on the second floor. Harry’s eyes catch on Louis’ shoes next to his by the front door, the frames filled with their faces, the notebook still laid out on the desk with countless lyrics about Louis in it. 

It takes them a few seconds to get to the door but it feels like a lifetime before he gets his hands on him again. He lets Louis walk ahead of him into the room, shutting the door softly behind him and clicking the lock shut. 

No one would come in anyway, but Harry isn’t about to let anything ruin this night, even if it’s only Bea meowing at them to fill up her perpetually empty food bowl. 

Louis is standing alone in the middle of the room when he turns around, fabric-covered arms crossed insecurely over his abdomen. He meets Harry’s gaze pink-cheeked before he drops his eyes to the ground. 

Harry takes careful steps to get to him. It feels like they’re suspended in the air, the fine line between knowing what’s going to happen and actually experiencing it. 

He tilts Louis’ chin up to meet his eyes and molds their mouths together again. Louis falls lax in his arms but Harry wouldn’t dream of letting him fall. Carefully supporting him underneath his elbows, he walks them backward until Louis’ knees hit the bed. 

Breaking apart from him, Harry stands straight and pulls his shirt off, then his pants. He stands before Louis bare save for the revealing material of his boxers. 

“I -” Louis swallows, whimpering. 

“Do you want to undress, sweetheart?” 

He nods quickly, “Yeah, could you,” he trails off, turning an even deeper red. 

Louis bites his lip as he guides Harry’s hand to the seam of his shirt. 

“Oh,” Harry breathes. “Gonna let me do it, hmm?” 

He keens at Harry and nuzzles his collarbone, the highest he can reach on Harry’s body. It sounds something like  _ yes _ . 

Taking his time, he starts with the shirt. Harry reveals his smooth skin inch by inch, sliding his hands over the exposed areas of skin. Both of them are breathless already and he hasn’t even gotten Louis undressed. 

The shirt falls out of his hands to the ground when he manages to pull it all the way off of him. Louis doesn’t follow the movement. His eyes stay trained on Harry’s hands, now headed for the button on his trousers. 

“Look at me,” Harry says, nosing at his cheek affectionately, “you want this?” 

“Please, Harry. I don’t - I want you, please.” 

“Hush, petal,” he coos, “I’ll take care of you.” 

He kisses his temple while his hands nimbly undo the button, then leans down so he can get his trousers the rest of the way off. Once they’re discarded next to his shirt, Harry glances up at him from the floor with hooded eyes. 

Holding his gaze, he lets his lips fall just above the band of Louis’ boxers. Already Louis whimpers above him, placing a shaky hand on his shoulder. With everything else silenced, far away from the ticking clock and the sprinklers outside and their phones, he can hear every bated breath that falls out of Louis’ bitten lips. 

Harry hides his small smile in the soft skin of Louis’ stomach. Forehead resting there, it falls up and down in a predictable rhythm. Louis is  _ here _ . He’s in his hands, warm and willing and lovely. 

Moving his mouth lower, Harry kisses his hipbone lovingly before mouthing over the tip of Louis’ cock through the material. 

“Harry,” he says breathlessly. 

He smiles again and opens his mouth wider. Harry lets his tongue wander down the small length as it grows underneath his touch. His boxers are so thin that he can practically see Louis through them, but he keeps them on a bit longer. 

If he’s only got tonight, he’s going to make sure it’s something neither of them will ever forget. 

With his hands securely holding Louis’ hips, Harry keeps him still when he begins to try and shy away from the sensation. He waits another minute before really giving in, sucking hard on the now fully hard prick. He can just barely taste him where he’s leaking at the tip. 

When Louis lets out a small cry, he backs up and peels away the layer of clothing between them. Cradling Louis’ smaller cock in his hand, Harry stands again and strokes him a few times while he mouths at Harry’s chest. 

“Harry, you.” Louis whines. 

Muffled against his skin, it takes a few repetitions for Harry to understand what he’s trying to say. He steps back when he gets it, sliding a hand underneath his own boxers to get them off. 

Louis doesn’t get much time to admire because Harry’s kissing him again, pushing on his shoulder gently to get him to lay back on the bed. Everything in him wants to crawl up over him in the moment, but he refrains. 

“Be right back,” he murmurs, smoothing the hair back from his forehead. 

Safe sex has always been a requirement for him. In his position it’d be detrimental to his career if he were to catch something from one of his partners or get someone pregnant. And, in the past, he hadn’t minded one bit. 

As he searches through his old suitcase to find the giant stash of them he used to travel with, he finds himself wishing he didn’t have to use one with Louis. 

Still, he grabs several and feels around for the lube he knows is in there as well, slotting them between his fingers and taking long steps back over to the bed. 

Louis is sitting up when he gets back, ankles crossed and arms around his knees. 

“Still sure?” Harry asks. 

“M’sure,” he nods, a small smile on his lips. 

The lamps on either side of the bed are the only light left in the room. They accentuate Louis beautifully, his bashful stance and miles of tanned skin. He looks like he’s glowing. For a second Harry’s hand itches for a pen, dying to write about him in this moment. His golden boy, he thinks fondly. 

He knees across the bed to him, drops the lube and condom on the sheets, kisses him until he’s languid and laying back again. 

Once he seems relaxed enough, Harry parts from his lips to plant kisses down his neck and chest and appreciate the darkening marks left behind. He hopes they’ll stain his skin, that Louis will look in the mirror and have a reminder even after he’s gone. 

Harry places his hands over the prominent curve of Louis’ hips and squeezes again reassuringly. His stomach is thoroughly marked up by the time he’s finished appreciating it. Moving even lower, Harry’s mouth hovers over Louis’ cock as he uses his head to nudge his thighs apart. 

Louis welcomes him shyly, slowly spreading himself open as he reaches down to hold onto Harry’s hands. Harry kisses his thigh once, twice, and smiles gratefully at him. 

The lube gets jostled with their movement and rolls until it hits Harry’s side and he picks it up appreciatively. He uncaps it, Louis jerking at the sudden noise under him, and pours a small amount onto his hands. 

Once it’s warm enough, Harry kisses absently at his prick while he trails a finger toward his hole. The resistance is obvious at the first gentle push, prodding around his rim to get a finger inside of him properly. 

“So tight, petal,” he croons. 

Louis’ leg kicks out to the side just as Harry manages to get his fingertip in, feeling around in an effort to stretch him enough for his cock. 

He licks at the underside of Louis’, then kisses the area where his thigh meets his pelvis when he shies away. 

“Too much,” he mutters. 

Taking mercy on him, Harry waits until he’s trying to add a second finger to suck at the tip, just enough to distract him from any pain. 

The image of his fingers has him entranced when he looks down. He’s got two digits inside of him and nearly a third, and he’s so  _ tight _ . He thinks fleetingly about getting his mouth there, too, but he doesn’t want to overwhelm him.  _ Next time _ , he thinks, and then immediately regrets it. 

Harry doubles his efforts. They hadn’t agreed on a  _ next time _ . They have here, now, and nothing else is certain. His fingers slide in and out easily enough with the lube, but he adds some more to fit the third finger completely. 

“Oh,” Louis gasps, hands fisting the sheets beside him. 

He fucks him slowly with his fingers, scissoring them and feeling the stretch that results. Four would be ideal, but Harry’s impatient to get inside of him. After a few more minutes he pulls them out, cleans them off with his mouth to which Louis moans outright, and then sits up on his knees. 

His hand falters looking for the condom, not feeling it where he left it. When he looks up, Louis has it in his hand. He’s sitting up on his elbows, still timid despite the circumstance. 

“Could I, uhm, do it for you?” 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Harry nods, kneeing forward so he won’t have to reach so far. 

Louis fumbles with the package, his hands shaking so much that he can’t get it open. Eventually, it drops out of his hold and onto the sheets again. 

“Here, love,” Harry picks it up, ripping it open before handing it back to him. 

Smiling in thanks, Louis still doesn’t make any sudden moves to put it on. Harry watches him carefully but doesn’t say anything, not wanting to rush him. 

After a minute passes, slowly, Louis’ hands move toward Harry’s cock. His small hands grasp Harry as a gasp leaves his lips. He pinches the tip and rolls it down his length at an excruciating pace, but Harry bites the inside of his cheek to hide the groan threatening to escape. 

“Thank you, petal,” he grits when Louis lays back down. 

He moves to kneel in between his legs again as they fall open to accommodate him, kissing the corner of Louis’ mouth several times and his forehead. Harry’s elbows frame his face, still highlighted by the glow of the lamp. 

Every time he woke up in a stranger’s flat, every time he had a quickie in a club bathroom, every blowjob in the back of a limousine - Harry wants to override all of that with this. He already knows Louis is going to be the best he’s ever had and he hasn’t even  _ had _ him yet. 

For a moment he just holds his gaze. Louis’ clear blue eyes framed by his fanning lashes, the button nose and his small, swollen lips he wants to memorize the taste of. Louis seems vulnerable and open, trusting, but he also seems nervous. 

Harry recalls the absence of finesse in their first kiss, the tremors in Louis’ hands at the slightest touch, and hesitates above him with a furrowed brow. 

“Louis,” he murmurs, “have you not done this before?” 

His blue eyes dart around the room before returning to Harry’s. He gives a small shrug on the bed, the sheets shifting underneath him. 

“I - I have. I just - it’s been a long time for me,” he lowers his eyes. 

“How long?” Harry asks. 

He doesn’t know why he asks, really. It’s probably too personal, but - he wants to know. He’s thrumming with pent up energy while Louis draws it out. 

“Almost eight years, I think,” he says quietly. 

Harry’s breath leaves him between one second and the next. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, “I’ve got you, thank you.” 

He’s got no idea what he’s saying but he’s too busy finding Louis’ lips again to care. Everything takes a softer turn now, his hands running the length of Louis’ arms and open legs delicately as he shivers. 

Harry doesn’t ask if he’s sure again. His answer is obvious in the way he’s still lying here right now. Since they met, Harry’s seen him when he’s uncomfortable countless times. When he just wants out or away or if he’s hurting. 

This isn’t that. Louis is nervous, yes, but he’s sure of himself. His gaze doesn’t waver now, with Harry’s cock sitting intimidatingly at his entrance.  _ Eight years _ , Harry reminds himself, taking special care to sink into him exceedingly slowly. 

His head nearly falls down to hang limply between his shoulder blades at the feeling but he fights it so he can keep looking at Louis. 

Mouth open and head tilted back, Louis is rendered speechless. He holds his breath as Harry continues to inch his way inside despite the resistance. 

They’re suspended again. Right on the edge, just like always. 

With a shift, Harry bottoms out completely. Louis’ eyes flutter shut, squeezing them together unbelievingly. When he opens them again, they’re glassy. 

“My love,” Harry gasps, “my Louis.” 

He begins to move unhurriedly, taking his time to memorize every feeling running through his body while Louis adjusts to the new size. Slower than he ever has before, he buries himself inside and draws back out again, stuttering over a moan. 

Big hands frame Louis’ face again in the overwhelm. Their noses bump together with every shift of his hips. Louis chokes on the heavy air between them every few seconds. 

“Harry,” he mewls softly. 

“What is it, my love?” 

“Need - now,” he stumbles over his words, his leg moving higher on Harry’s hip. 

Bringing a hand down to hold it there, Harry quickens his pace just slightly. 

“Like tha’?” He slurs in Louis’ ear. 

The answering moan he gives echoes inside of Harry’s head. He latches his lips onto Louis’ chin when he tilts his head back on the pillow. Blindly, Louis feels around the area next to his head until he finds Harry’s hand again. 

Their fingers lace together as Harry pecks the back of his palm. Other hand still gripping Louis’ thigh, he moves his knees up the bed even further until Louis is spread open enough to be nearly bent in half. 

His mouth drops open around nothing, huffing out small breaths into Harry’s waiting mouth. He moves faster again but it isn’t any less deep, any less gentle for him. Smooth slides of his cock in and out, until Louis begins to sob, clenching desperately around him. 

“Louis,” Harry groans, “Not gonna - not gonna last.” 

“Me neither,” he whispers. 

Using all of his strength, Harry stills inside of him. 

“Wha -” Louis mutters blearily, blissed out eyes focusing on him again. 

Harry pulls out swiftly and lays on his side, bringing Louis back into him with an arm around his waist. 

“Don’t want it to be over yet,” Harry says tenderly, cupping the side of his face to bring them together. 

He could make them both come now and it would be just as great. Harry would still be able to say they’d been together and know that they were both satisfied. But he also thinks it means something that he  _ wants _ to slow down, to savor every last bit of Louis he can have until he can’t have it any longer. 

He waits until Louis really begins to kiss him back, until Harry’s sure he’s back with him fully, to resume where they left off. Despite the angle, they fall into it almost more easily than before. 

Louis’ thigh shakes when he goes to lift it so Harry cradles it up for him. With his hand, he positions himself and pushes into him for a second time. They both moan now, Louis’ back arching as if presenting himself for Harry. 

When he’s nestled deeply again, he brings his arm back up to keep Louis tight to his chest. It moves on autopilot up to grab his chin, turning his head to hold the eye contact. 

“Do you feel me inside you, petal?” He lets his hand wander to his lower stomach before returning to his jaw. 

“Yeah,” Louis cries. “Feel you,” he repeats. 

“That’s right, sweetheart. All mine, aren’t you?” 

He’d been afraid of this. Afraid that if he talked he would mess everything up, cross too many lines and Louis would get uncomfortable. 

Instead, he sobs openly and reaches up to grab Harry’s arm, wincing from the pleasure. 

“Yours, yours, Harry” he pants, “m’yours.” 

It doesn’t take much longer to work up to the same rhythm from before, rocking steadily into Louis and pushing deep. 

“Louis,” Harry warns again, choking on the syllable. 

He gets a hand around Louis’ prick, bouncing with the movement of his thrusts. Between that and shifting around until Louis screams, working messy circles into that spot inside of him, he comes with one last cry and leans back into Harry vulnerably. 

“Baby,” Harry groans. 

“Want it,” he replies simply, hazy from his orgasm but interested in Harry’s nonetheless. 

Allowing himself to indulge in the fantasy, Harry punches his hips in and out with a bruising grip on Louis’ waist, Louis nearly on his stomach now. He comes inside of him even though it isn’t the real thing, groaning loud into his ear. 

He blinks as his vision centers again, Louis’ small hand petting his sweaty hair. Harry basks in it for a moment before lifting off of him to discard the condom in the bin next to the bed. 

Other than that, he doesn’t plan to move away from Louis for the rest of the night. Still laying on his front, Louis turns his head to smile up at him when Harry runs a hand down his spine. 

Harry falls down next to him with his head resting on his bent elbow. Louis stares back, a dopey grin on his face. 

“Thank you,” he rasps. 

Wiping the dried tears from his skin, Harry kisses the back of his hand and his lips before settling back down. 

“Thank  _ you _ .” 

They get up eventually, when it becomes evident that the sheets are too dirty to sleep on. Harry throws them in the wash while Louis never leaves his side, wearing Harry’s shirt and nothing else to combat the cold. 

He feeds Louis a snack and makes him drink a bottle of water before going to bed, even though his eyes are already halfway shut when they make it to the kitchen. In the end, he carries him back up the stairs and crawls in beside him on the unmade bed with only a throw over them. 

Huddled close for warmth, Harry can feel every inhale and exhale of Louis’ smaller body next to his. They can deal with everything else in the morning. 

For now, at least, they’re both still  _ here _ . 

+

Harry’s gone before Louis wakes up. 

His bags packed in advance, he’d loaded them into the car early this morning before the sun had risen. He’d taken a long glance around the home one last time, waved goodbye to Bea, and kissed Louis sparingly, softly on his forehead before leaving. 

When he first came here, the house was full of things that felt like a home, but none of it felt like  _ his _ . Ultimately, it was empty, even with all of the old furniture and grand decor lining the walls to the high ceilings. 

It isn’t empty anymore. It’s full from top-to-bottom with memories they’ve created, moments they shared inside its walls. Harry’s got a mental photo album of each of them - the meeting where they met, watching Louis get more comfortable with him, painting together, the night they’d shared only hours ago. He feels incredibly different driving out of the town than he did driving into it. 

Somewhere along the way he’d stopped thinking about it as Genevieve’s house and more as his and Louis’. As much as it pains him to leave the only place that’s ever truly felt like home, he knows what he has to do now. 

He was selfish when they first met. He won’t be selfish again. 

The sky is back to being perfectly blue when he walks up to the entrance, heading back to his appointment. 

“Are you sure you want to do this, Mr. Styles?” The attorney asks him again. 

They’d asked him a million times over the phone this morning, but Harry gives them the same answer. 

“I’m sure.” 

“If you keep it in your name, you can still come back and -” she tries to dissuade him. 

“No.” 

The man hands him the pen and hesitantly flips the document open to the right page, gesturing where his signature is needed to complete the transfer. Harry ignores their worried glances and signs his name. 

He smiles when it's done, sliding it back over to them. Standing, Harry thanks them, walks out of the office and back to his car. He swallows to the tune of the Catalina’s engine coming to life and heads for the airport. 

It’s Louis’ home now. 

+

Harry’s been back in Los Angeles for four weeks. Four grueling, migraine-inducing weeks that have felt like years in his overworked brain. 

He’s lost fans apparently after the six months he spent away, and his every move is being planned accordingly to regain those and more before the end of the year is over. A new album is already in the works, lines of talented writers scheduled into his studio time in an effort to get him to release what he’s got written down in his journal. He holds it a bit tighter to his chest each time they try. 

Louis hasn’t called. Harry sort of thought he might have the first week or two but he’d only been more disappointed the longer he waited and was met with radio silence. His phone is constantly pinging with notifications and there isn’t one he feels like responding to. 

Harry’s got a flat here now that they’d bought for him to stay in - anything to bribe him enough to keep working. Booking him in venues they know he already likes, leaving enough free time for him to attend any parties or events he chooses. Harry stays home and feels bad for himself instead. 

He does a performance on Sunday that he’s told will air on live television. As he’s running off stage to get back to the car afterward, he wonders if Louis was watching from home. All cuddled up in his favorite throw blanket, he can picture him and Bea waiting for him to come on. Or maybe Louis threw the remote at the TV at the mere mention of his name. Harry wouldn’t blame him at all. 

By Friday of the fifth week, he has an epiphany. It happens while he’s sitting alone in the empty flat, having just hung up with his manager. 

No one is forcing him to do this. He’s got a strict team and loyal fans but he isn’t obligated to live a life he’s unhappy with. The good people will surely see that, he thinks. Louis had. 

Driven by the idea, Harry stays up the rest of the night until the meeting he’s got the following morning and shows up wearing slacks and a sleep shirt. 

“Harry, thank you for coming. If you’ll just have a seat, we wanted to -” 

“I quit,” he says. 

Silence falls over the conference room at his label’s office. Each of the faces he’s seen everyday for the past ten years stare back at him, surprise clear in their features. 

“You can’t quit,” the woman scoffs, but she still looks worried. 

“I’ve fulfilled all of your terms,” Harry says calmly, “We agreed on two more albums and two tours. Which, if I’m not mistaken, we just finished. If I owe you anything else feel free to let me know. Otherwise…” he trails off. 

It feels absolutely amazing, he decides, to tell them off. These people who have treated him like an immature, stupid little boy for the majority of the time he’s known them. They gape at him like they had no idea he would’ve come prepared for this. This time he isn’t going to sit back and take it. 

Harry surveys the room with raised brows, waiting for anyone to object. When no one speaks up, he repeats himself slowly so no one misses it. 

“I quit.” 

They sputter after him when he storms out of the room but other than that things go fairly smoothly. He’s got to go back in to confirm that he does, in fact, want to leave the company. It’s bittersweet because they did give him the assurance of being financially stable for the rest of his life and they were the only ones that cared if he survived when he first moved here. But the taste of freedom is ultimately too good to turn down. 

The entire time he was home he felt like he’d had the threat of coming back looming over his head, when it shouldn’t have felt like a threat at all. Harry’s aching to do something he wants to do instead of what everyone’s come to expect from him. He’s aching to be  _ happy _ . 

So, the day after he signs the final document, he gets back in the car to the airport. This time when he boards and waits for take off, he feels infinitely more hopeful than when he’d landed in LA. There’s an anxious thrum in his veins underneath the excitement, though, that keeps him from fully jumping up and down in the aisle. 

He’d left Louis without a word. They’d both known he was leaving but it happened so quickly that he’s been regretting it ever since. The fact that Louis hasn’t reached out may be purely for protection of his own feelings, but it may also be because he still hates Harry with a passion. He isn’t much looking forward to finding out which it is. 

It isn’t until he’s standing outside the big, light blue house again, suitcases next to him, taxi already speeding down the road, that he really begins to get scared. He still has his key somewhere in his luggage but Harry doesn’t dare come back in without knocking. 

The sharp rap on the wood startles him even though it was by his own hand and Harry takes an impulsive step backward in preparation. 

It feels like ages that he waits there nervously. When the door finally does peak open, he gets no warning. Louis doesn’t yell that he’s coming, he doesn’t hear the footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs to the entryway. 

“L-” he opens his mouth to say Louis’ name but stops before the syllable crosses his lips. 

Unsure of what he is and isn’t allowed to do or say, he waits for Louis to make the first move. 

Louis surges forward and presses his lips to Harry’s roughly, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders. Harry sighs into it comfortably as the stress melts out of him. His hands circle Louis’ waist and he’s pulling him closer, closer, until - 

Until there’s a sharp sting on his cheek. Eyes wide, he pulls back to look into Louis’ eyes. 

“I can’t believe you,” he says, pointing an angry finger at Harry’s chest, “we were doing so well. You gave me the best night of my life and then you just up and - you just leave, Harry. You didn’t even leave me anything. No call, no text, nothing. And then you come back for I don’t even know what, and, and -” 

“Louis,” Harry soothes, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you like that but I was selfish. I didn’t think I could - I knew I wasn’t going to be able to say goodbye to you so I just left without saying anything. And I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.” 

He runs a careful hand over the back of his head until Louis’ brows unfurrow. 

“So why are you back then?” He swallows. 

“I realized I was making myself suffer for no reason. My contract was up and I asked myself where I really wanted to be.” 

Stepping closer, he moves fully into Louis’ space to nudge their noses together, to feel his breath on his lips again. 

“It’s here, Louis. I want to be here,” he whispers. “I want to  _ stay _ here.” 

Louis fists a hand into the front of his shirt and pulls him into the house with their lips attached again, Harry kicking the door shut behind them. 

“You won’t leave again?” He asks, grabbing at Harry’s shirt collar desperately. 

“I won’t leave again,” Harry confirms. 

“You promise?” Louis asks, quieter. 

“Louis, look at me,” he holds his chin, “M’not leaving ever again. No matter how much you get tired of me.” 

They end up on the sofa after a few stumbles, clinging tight to each other until they fall backward. He glances down at Louis as a grin spreads across his cheeks. 

“Never have enough,” he murmurs to Harry happily. 

“Hey, wait a minute,” Harry accuses, pulling back. “Why didn’t  _ you _ call  _ me _ ?” 

“I don’t have your number, you dolt,” he explains, slapping Harry once in the chest. 

“But I called you that one time,” Harry points out. 

“I didn’t save it to my phone.” 

“It was in the paperwork.” 

“Oh,” Louis finally relents, “I didn’t think to look there.” 

“I can’t believe you,” Harry shakes his head with a fond sigh. 

It’s surprisingly easy to fall back into the routine. Making dinner together, cuddling up on the sofa to watch nighttime television before bed. Harry tugs him close and presses a kiss to the top of his head. 

“Hold on a second, okay?” Louis murmurs, standing up to walk out of the room. 

“Alright,” Harry agrees, reluctant to part from him now that he’s back. 

He uses the brief time alone to survey the room he’s sitting in. Louis’ set up some flowers in each of the corners, a large bookshelf just before the corridor littered with old books that hadn’t been there before. At the very end of one of the shelves, a folded paper sticks out as if being used as a bookmark. 

Tossing the throw blanket to the side, he walks over to it to get a better look. 

_ In regards to the house _ \- it reads when Harry tugs on it. It’s unmistakable Genevieve’s handwriting, long paragraphs with curly cursive that flows effortlessly. 

Underneath, she lists all of the reasons Louis should have the house. For a second it takes Harry’s breath away. If he’d seen this earlier he may not have made the same choices. Knowing him now, he agrees with every single thing she’d said about just how deserving he is. 

He can’t even say that he regrets anything though, not with how grateful he is that it all panned out the way it has. Harry finishes reading with a small smile, tracing a finger over her words before putting it back in its place. He figures he doesn’t much need to worry about any of that now - now that it’s  _ their _ home. 

“Lou?” He calls, stepping around the bookshelf to the hallway and heading up the stairs. 

Harry hasn’t been upstairs again yet since he’s gotten back, but it looks much the same too, save for some more photos Louis hung up in his absence. If he’s not mistaken, there are a few more of Harry as well. He grins at the idea of Louis preparing for him to come back even with no way to get a hold of him for a certain answer. He’s going to make up for every second he was stupid enough to be away. 

Concerned at his lack of answer, Harry raps quietly on the wooden door before pushing it open slightly. 

“Lou-  _ oh _ ,” he gulps. 

Louis is laid out bare in the middle of the king sized bed, the very same one that’s starred in all of Harry’s dreams for the past six weeks. He can remember taking Louis there like it was only a few hours ago. Practically glowing, he waves shyly at Harry with his bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

“Welcome home,” Louis says. 

Harry’s on him in seconds. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in the playlist i listened to while writing for inspiration, you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/116fXxzCKtUGmOUEKQYWW8?si=RqQ8J9iVTmm1K-uU_8b6gQ). 
> 
> you can reblog this fic [here](https://soldouthaz.tumblr.com/post/611365688876105728/make-this-feel-like-home-43k-the-house-on-west) :)


	5. 4.5

Louis loses three houses in his lifetime before he finds a home. 

He started out in four walls that had everything that constituted one - two parents, a pet, family pictures hung up on the walls. For the nineteen years he lived there, Louis never felt like he was wanted. It felt fake, like if he leaned on one of the walls too hard it might fall down and expose the audience behind, laughing and pointing at his failures. It’d been a glorified cage. 

Next, he had the house on West 28th Street. The smaller one of the two, a new chapter of his life to try and make it his own again. This time it didn’t feel quite as fake. It was definitely real, all of Louis’ boxes scattered around halfway unpacked as the days numbered on. But even this one was hollow. He’d realized that, even given the chance to have a house of his own, he didn’t know how to truly make it a home. 

The third house he’d had was Genevieve’s. For two weeks he’d been too terrified to do anything more than stare at it from across the street. Looking back, it’d been a massive waste of time. Before he had time to settle into that one properly, it’d been taken right out from under him. 

“Hello?” Louis asks, picking up his cell from the table. 

He’s got his feet propped up on a sun chair in the backyard, a glistening swimming pool in front of him and the grass freshly mowed. Biting his lip giddily, he kicks back even further and lets the sunlight warm his skin. 

“Hey, love,” Harry drawls, smile evident in his voice, “Whatcha doing?” 

“Oh, nothing. Just a bit of sunbathing before it gets too cold.” 

Bea mewls at him from her pink pet palace set up in the corner of the patio, her beady eyes glaring at him. 

“Bea says hello,” Louis chuckles. 

“Ah, tell her I miss her very much.” 

Harry is at a conference in New York right now, meeting with potential clients for his own label. Just last year he’d been able to quit his other and build his own from nothing. Already it’s got double the clients his old one had. 

Despite what the media still says about him, Louis knows he’s the only one Harry facetimes until morning with, until they’re both exhausted and can’t keep their eyes open any longer. He’s been sober for over two years now, anyway, so he avoids most of the parties. 

“And what about me?” Louis asks indignantly. 

“You too, my love,” he drawls. 

Louis blushes, then sits up straighter when he hears a car door slam out front. He figures it must be the mailman. His addiction to soft, flannel throws has gotten way out of hand, and he’s been ordering at least one a month now. 

They’ve got all different patterns and colors of them, littered around in their bedroom and living room and study. Now that he’s got a home to decorate, Louis plans to take full advantage of ordering anything he wants to put inside of it. It’s been a long process, but he finally feels like it’s almost there. 

“You still there?” Harry asks. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just thought I heard the mailman. It’s probably my new blanket,” he laughs, moving to go check. 

“I hope you got the blue one as well,” Harry mentions, “I saw it just came out on that site you order them from.” 

Throwing his legs over the side of the chair, Louis hums into the phone and stretches like Bea would, cracking the muscles in his back until he feels loose. Then, slipping his shirt back on, he heads to see what he got. 

He passes the new wall of pictures as he goes, slowing down to admire each of them properly. 

All of them are awful, really, but Louis loves them just the same. There’s one of he and Harry making silly faces, a few of them from award shows and banquets of Harry’s, and then the most recent one from the night they’d gotten engaged. 

Glancing down at the simple ring on his finger, Louis grins as Harry rambles on about ideas for new company content in his ear. Harry gets so excited about his job now in a way he’s never seen him before. 

Louis moves toward the dining room next, spotting the stain on the floor next to one of the chairs. It’s marinara sauce from spaghetti night. They’d been deliriously happy that night, about a year after Harry came back, dancing around in the kitchen before stumbling to the table with their plates piled high. 

When Harry kissed him suddenly, he’d gone a bit limp. The spaghetti had dropped from his hand to the rug below with a thud, a glob of the pasta sticking to the fibers. He’s sort of glad it never came out. 

The living room is his last stop before he reaches the front door. His eyes run over the furniture, items they’d gone to pick out together. Each of the sofas are unbelievably comfortable, adorned with pillows and throw blankets Louis picked out. 

His chair sits in one corner with a draft of Genevieve’s biography laid out for Harry to read when he gets back. Louis’ been working on it for months. Then, in the far corner of the room over the fireplace, there is a portrait of her they’d found in the attic. Especially when Harry’s away, it makes him feel like he’s never truly alone. 

Somewhere along the way it stopped feeling artificial. He isn’t sure which piece of decor did it for him, which photograph or flowers or paint color made it all real. Since he’d never experienced it before it’d taken him a bit longer to read the signs. 

Or, maybe it hadn’t been a  _ thing _ at all. Maybe it’d been a person. 

If someone had asked him ten years ago, he would’ve probably said Genevieve was the closest he’d ever get to home. Now, after everything else, Louis thinks he may have a different answer. 

He gets to the entryway just as Harry begins saying he has to go. 

“Wait,” Louis pouts, “don’t hang up yet. I’ll just be a second, promise.”

“I have to, love.” Harry whispers. 

“Why are you whispering?” Louis whispers back automatically, hand on the doorknob. 

Harry never answers. He frowns down at the phone when all he sees is his own reflection in the black screen. That’s certainly not like him, Louis thinks. He hadn’t even said I love you. 

Shrugging a bit dejectedly, Louis pulls open the door with his eyes still trained on his blank notifications. He startles when he finds black, shiny boots on the porch instead of his package. 

“Harry,” he breathes, eyes snapping up to meet his. 

“Hi,” he laughs, his arms opening wide. 

Louis jumps into them without hesitation. He kisses Harry’s face over and over again until he has to stop for air. 

“What are you doing home?” He asks. 

“I got done early. Thought I would surprise you,” Harry hums. “Missed you so much.” 

He kisses Louis like he’s starving outside the entrance of their house, holding up his legs on either side of his hips. Sighing into the feeling, Louis relaxes in his hold and lets himself be supported fully by Harry. 

Louis’ lost three houses in his lifetime. His childhood home, his small house on 28th, and then Genevieve’s, before he managed to get it back. It may not have been in the way he wanted originally, but he can’t picture a better outcome now. 

“I love you,” Harry tells him. 

He swings Louis around until he’s carrying him properly, shushing his quiet squeal as he says the words back, and carries him over the threshold of the home. Their  _ Home Sweet Home _ sign rattles against the door. 

“Shouldn’t we have waited until after the wedding to do that?” Louis asks him. 

“If  _ that’s _ the rule for that…” Harry trails off with his eyebrows raised, nodding politely at Bea on the way to their bedroom. 

“Oi, shut it, Mr. Already-On-His-Way-to-the-Bedroom,” Louis giggles. 

There are no more  _ tomorrows _ . He grabs Harry by the arm and pulls him down onto the bed beside him, his arms quick to wrap around Louis’ smaller waist. 

“I love you,” he says again, nosing against Harry’s cheek. 

The wedding is in a few months. It’ll be in the backyard at sunset, and Louis’ never been more excited for anything in his life. Genevieve isn’t here to see it, but the house will be. It’s walls have seen him at his best and his worst, will go on to see even more of them as the years pass. One day, Louis thinks fondly, he hopes they can leave it to their own children. 

“Love you,” Harry replies quietly. 

His fingertip runs softly over Louis’ cheekbone where he’s facing him laying down. Yeah, Louis can picture doing this a million times over, until he can’t walk without a cane and his back finally gives out. When Harry’s no longer popular and they’re just two old people in middle-of-nowhere London. He grins into Harry’s embrace and shuts his eyes. 

The house on West 28th Street in London is twice the size of Louis’ old one, more priceless than anything money could ever buy, and is overflowing with more love than he could have ever imagined. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in the playlist i listened to while writing for inspiration, you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/116fXxzCKtUGmOUEKQYWW8?si=RqQ8J9iVTmm1K-uU_8b6gQ). 
> 
> you can reblog this fic [here](https://soldouthaz.tumblr.com/post/611365688876105728/make-this-feel-like-home-43k-the-house-on-west) :)

**Author's Note:**

> if you're interested in the playlist i listened to while writing for inspiration, you can find it [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/116fXxzCKtUGmOUEKQYWW8?si=RqQ8J9iVTmm1K-uU_8b6gQ). 
> 
> you can reblog this fic [here](https://soldouthaz.tumblr.com/post/611365688876105728/make-this-feel-like-home-43k-the-house-on-west) :)


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